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THE 

SHORT STORY 

A Technical and Literary Study 



BV 

ETHAN ALLEN CROSS, Ph.M. 

Professor of Literature and English, The State 
Teachers College of Colorado 




CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
1914 



-pri33T3 



Copyright 
A. C. McCLURG & CO. 

1914 



Published October, 1914 



©CI.A388146 

3. Ifcll printing CHo.. (Hijiragji 

OCT 28 1914 



To My Wife 

4Hag MHUv (&vaB& 



PREFACE 



The Aim of the Booh. — The Short Story is a literary- 
form as distinct as the novel or epic poem and almost 
as uniformly true to its technical type as the ballade or 
sonnet. This book is written for the numerous readers 
who enjoy the best short stories in the magazines, in the 
hope that it may be an aid to them in getting at the 
meaning of these stories through an understanding of 
their construction. One who occasionally reads poetry 
may get some pleasure from the reading of a poem com- 
posed in one of the standard poetic forms without know- 
ing anything about the kinds of lyrics, but the reader 
who understands the technic of the sonnet or ballade de- 
rives an added pleasure from reading poems in these 
forms when he is aware that the author's meaning, his 
theme, has been embodied skillfully in an exquisite fixed 
form. An observer who is acquainted with the details of 
architecture delights in looking upon a finished struc- 
ture, beautiful, stately, well adapted to its intended use, 
in which he recognizes a conformity to the laws of con- 
struction, an embodiment of historic lines in the decora- 
tion and total effect, and the successful conquest of diffi- 
culties in order to accomplish the result in the standard 
technical requirements of architecture. We all get more 
or less pleasure out of music ; but how much greater is 
the enjoyment of the trained musician over that of one 
who merely ' ' knows what he likes, ' ' as these two listen to 
Aida, or, better still as an illustration, the Quintet from 
the Meistersinger of Von Bulow, or Edward MacDowell's 
Brer Rabbit. 

vii 



/ 



PREFACE 

The technic of the Short Story, as it is written today 
by the best of its masters, is quite definite in its essential 
features and yet so flexible in the non-essentials as to 
give to the careless reader the impression of lawlessness. 
The purpose of the book, then, to be a little more specific, 
is to point out those technical features of the Short Story 
which are generally recognized by the best writers, and 
to prepare the reader for the variations in form which 
the flexibility in the non-essential parts admits, and yet 
to make clear the fact that, there is such a thing as The 
Technic of the Short Story, the understanding of which 
opens up the possibilities of comprehension and enjoy- 
ment just as the perception of the technical elements of 
other forms of literary art, of architecture, or of music 
increases the sweep of one's appreciation of an ode, a 
public building, or a symphony. 

In the preparation of this book there has been no 
effort made to get together a manual for the beginner in 
the writing of short stories. A number of these already 
exist. But it is possible that the analysis of the structure 
of the short story from the reader 's point of view may be 
helpful to the beginner in writing by clarifying his no- 
tions about tHe handling of plot, theme, suspense, and 
the other elements of technic. 

The historical development of this form of art has 
been touched only superficially. The author's purpose 
has been to exhibit the story as it is now. We all recog- 
nize in these days of exact biological calculation that 
heredity has much to do with the living youth who flour- 
ishes among us ; and so, to a certain extent, it is with a 
literary form. In an attempt to keep the peace with the 
literary scientists and at the same time to avoid any 
long delay in getting at the serious business of the book 
a short paragraph has been devoted to each of the more 
important branches of the family tree of the Short Story. 



PREFACE 

Acknowledgments. — The publication of this book 
would have been impossible without the personal permis- 
sion given generously and freely by a number of authors 
to use their copyright material, some of it their most 
recent work. I wish to thank most heartily James B. 
Connolly, Joseph Conrad, A. Conan Doyle, Hamlin Gar- 
land, A. H. Hawkins, Jack London, Arthur Morrison, 
Ruth Sawyer, and Archibald J. Wolfe. 

Publishers owning copyrights have been gracious in 
allowing me to use selections from their books and maga- 
zines. I gratefully acknowledge my indebtedness to 
Current Literature Publishing Company, Doubleday, 
Page & Company, Henry Holt and Company, Houghton 
Mifflin Company, The Macmillan Company, The Outlook 
Company, G. P. Putnam's Sons, and Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 

For assistance in reading manuscript and proof and 
for criticism I am indebted to Dr. Edward Fulton, Pro- 
fessor of Rhetoric, The University of Illinois. And last, 
an author should be free in acknowledging the assistance 
which comes to him from all who have written on a sim- 
ilar subject before him. This I do, naming, especially, 
Clayton Hamilton, Evelyn May Albright, Bliss Perry, 
Charles Raymond Barrett, J. Berg Esenwein, Charles F. 
Home, Hamilton W. Mabie, Brander Matthews, and 
Henry Seidel Canby. 

E. A. C. 
The State Teachers College op Colorado, 

Greeley, Colorado. 
October, 1914. 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTER I 

PAGE 

The History of the Short Story ... 3 
The Prose Tale and the Short Story — The Tales 
of the Magicians — The Arabian Nights' Enter- 
tainments — Old Testament Stories — Greek 
and Roman Tales — Gesta Romanorum- — Beast 
Fables and Picaresque Tales — Boccaccio's 
Decameron — Sir Thomas Malory's Morte D' 
Arthur — Episodes in Longer Stories — The 
Influence of the Essayists — Hawthorne and Poe 
— The Modern Short Story — The Chrono- 
logical Development of the Short Story — Ref- 
erences. 

CHAPTER II 

The Materials prom Which Stories are Made 17 
People, Incidents, Setting — Stories of Char- 
acter, of Incident, or of Setting — The Pre- 
dominant Element — Suggestions for Study. 

CHAPTER III 

The Short Story is an Impression from Life 25 

How the Impression is Made — What is Meant 

by the Theme — The Means Used in Developing 

a Theme — A Classification of Themes — 

xi 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Groups of Themes — The Writer's Primary 
Purpose — The Greatest Themes — Suggestions 
for Study. 

CHAPTER IV 

Plot 39 

A Typical Plot Diagram — Other Plot Diagrams 

— The Plot in a Detective Story — Summary — 
An Example for the Study of Plot — The Piece 
of String, by Guy de Maupassant — The Plot 
Diagram for The Piece of String — Suggestions 
for Study. 

CHAPTER V 

The Characters . . . . « .59 

How Many Characters — What Kind of People 

— The Characters Must be Worth Knowing — 
Unusual People — People in Unusual Situations 

— Unusual Impressions of Characters and Life 

— Condensations of Experience — Character 
Portrayal and Development — The Two Methods 
of Delineating Character — Suggestions for 
Study. 

CHAPTER VI 

The Remaining Means Used in Developing a 

Theme 69 

Setting — Emotion — Tone — Style — Appear- 
ance of Truth — Some Definitions and Distinc- 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

tions — Realism and Romance — Idealism and 
Symbolism — Distinctions in Terms — The 
Short Story, the Novelette, and the Novel — 
References — Suggestions for Study. 



CHAPTER VII 

The Management of Materials . . .80 

Point of View — Titles — Beginnings — Con- 
versation — Suspense — Suggestion and Re- 
straint — Endings — References — Suggestions 
for Study. 

CHAPTER VIII 

A Plan for the Study of any Short Story . 92 
The Whirligig of Life, by 0. Henry — The Plan 
Applied to the Study of The Whirligig of Life. 

SHORT STORIES FOR STUDY 

Ligeia, by Edgar Allan Poe 109 

Dr. Heiddegger's Experiment, by Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne 131 

The Necklace, by Guy de Maupassant . . . 146 
Three Arshms of Land, by Lyof N. Tolstoi . . 158 
Where Love is, There God is Also, by Lyof N. 
Tolstoi ........ 173 

The Father, by Bjornstjerne Bjornson . . 191 
The Mysterious Bride, by James Hogg . . 196 
The Prodigal Son, The New Testament . . 217 
The Taking of the Redoubt, by Prosper Merimee 220 

xiii 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

On the Stairs, by Arthur Morrison . . . 228 
The House Opposite, by Anthony Hope . . 234 
The Adventure of the Speckled Band, by Arthur 

Conan Doyle 241 

Will o' the MM, by Robert Louis Stevenson . . 277 
The Truth of the Oliver Cromwell, by James B. 

Connolly 313 

Samuel, by Jack London 361 

The Princess and the Vagabone, by Ruth Sawyer 389 
Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad . . . 406 
Martha's Fireplace, by Hamlin Garland . . 450 

Bibliography . . ' 477 

List of Short Stories 480 

Index 492 



xiv 



THE SHORT STORY 



THE SHORT STORY 



CHAPTER I 

THE HISTORY OF THE SHORT STORY 

Two facts about the short story are very significant: 
it is probably the oldest literary form, and it was the latest 
in point of time to receive exact definition of its purpose 
and scope, and full unfolding of its artistic and dramatic 
resources. The first fact means that the short story is a 
vital and not an artificial form of literature, and fits itself 
instinctively to certain impulses and interests of men; the 
second fact — the fact that the short story had to wait for 
the insight and skill of men of the genius of Poe, Hawthorne, 
Stevenson, Kipling, and Maupassant — means that as a 
literary form the short story ranks with the highest and 
most exacting forms of art. — Hamilton ~W. Mabie. Introduc- 
tion to "Stories New and Old.** 

A MONG unlettered people of our own time the prac- 
11 tice of telling and retelling stories of their 
experiences, stories that they have heard, or stories that 
they have imagined is a most common form of diversion. 
This custom of telling brief tales is perhaps as old as 
oral speech, for man seems to find in fiction, however 
crude, a means of diversion and entertainment. Men 
-dwelling in caves in the stone age, men gathered around 
savage camp fires, men " sitting at the gates of Damascus 
or Bagdad ' ' whiled away the time and entertained those 

[3] 



THE SHORT STORY 



within earshot with diverting tales — crude pieces of 
fiction; but the evolution of the Short Story from these 
earliest pieces of oral fiction to the artistic Short Story 
of the present day has been a long and slow process 
reaching its culmination in the tales and stories of Poe 
and Hawthorne, not more than seventy years ago — 
within the memory of men now living — and coming to 
its perfection in those of De Maupassant, Stevenson, and 
Kipling in the time of the present generation. 

Dr. William J. Dawson in his Makers of English 
Fiction calls fiction a kind of lie told in such a manner 
as to seem true. With some such idea in mind Professor 
Charles F. Home in The Technique of the Novel shows 
that fiction is literally older than speech, for even the 
cat, he says, practices a cunning fiction when she strolls 
away from the half-dead mouse with a disinterested, 
somewhat bored look, only to turn and spring lightly 
upon it again as it tries to drag itself away. But for 
a study of the actual beginnings of prose fiction in speech 
we must rely upon the records of the earliest tales set 
down in writing. 

The Prose Tale and the Short Story. — The men who 
told the tales around the savage camp fires perhaps had 
no other aim than to entertain by rehearsing an actual 
occurrence. They had not even so much skill in arrang- 
ing their stories, in omitting irrelevant matters, in 
coloring with imagination, as the loafer around the rusty 
stove in a village store exhibits today as he offers his 
worn stock of fiction to his companions for the tenth or 
sixtieth time. The ordinary tale in prose is very dif- 
ferent from the artistic Short Story. Everyone is 
familiar with the back-fence conversation — ' ' cackleiza- 

[4] 



THE HISTORY OF THE SHORT STORY 

tion," Dr. Stanley Hall calls it — which cannot omit 
irrelevant details, but which must include every circum- 
stance in time-sequence between the beginning and cul- 
mination of the delectable gossip. There is a vast 
difference between such narrations and the real Short 
Story. 

The Tales of the Magicians. — The most ancient record 
of prose stories is an Egyptian collection of tales con- 
tained in the ancient papyri. These stories are called by 
English scholars The Tales of the Magicians, and are 
published in two volumes by Professor Petrie. The col- 
lection is as old as 2700 B. C, and most scholars believe 
that its true date is approximately 4000 B. C. The sons 
of King Cheops (the great pyramid builder) are trying 
to entertain their father with some interesting stories. 
When one son has told the king some marvelous tale that 
he has heard, another steps forward and begins his story 
of " strange things." Perhaps the best known of these 
tales is one called The Shipwrecked Sailor. A translation 
of this may be read in Jessup and Canby's The Book of 
the Short Story. A sailor is shipwrecked upon a mys- 
terious island, all his companions perishing. The island 
is ruled by a great serpent, and inhabited only by ser- 
pents. These treat the unfortunate sailor kindly, and 
send him home with rich gifts when the next ship passes 
that way. 

In brief this is the story. What it lacks of meeting 
the technical requirements of the Short Story in the 
modern sense will be apparent after reading the chapters 
in this book on the technic of the Short Story. 

The Arabian Nights' Entertainments. — To try to make 
a list of the collections of oriental tales in the order of 

[5] 



THE SHORT STORY 



their age would be unprofitable, for exact dates are not 
known. The oldest reference to The Thousand and One 
Nights is B. C. 987. The stories are doubtless much 
older than that. Many devices have been employed by 
writers, ancient and modern, to give some degree of 
unity to a series of unrelated tales. The need of such 
devices is seen in The Tales of the Magicians, The Canter- 
bury Tales, and the Tales of a Wayside Inn, to take 
an ancient, a medieval, and a modern instance. Per- 
haps, none of the devices has exceeded in cleverness that 
of the Arabian Nights. Schariar, Sultan of India, is 
accustomed to select a new wife for each new day, and 
to have her put to death the following morning. Schehe- 
razade, daughter of the grand vizier, being selected one 
day, tells the sultan an interesting story at night and 
promises another for the following night. The sultan 
spares her life in order to hear the next story. This is 
kept up for a thousand and one nights (till the author 
of the volume has exhausted his stock of stories) and 
then the law requiring the sacrifice of the bride of a 
day is repealed, since it has been so long disregarded. 
Probably the best known of the stories from The Arabian 
Night s f Entertainments are Aladdin and his Wonderful 
Lamp, and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. 

Old Testament Stories. — The Hebrews were a religious 
people. It is not at all strange, then, that when they 
tell stories, they should have in mind a purpose beyond 
mere entertainment. Most of their stories have a distinct 
lesson to teach. Jotham's parable of The Trees Choosing 
a King (Judges 9:7-15) is an ironical reminder of how 
the people have chosen the worst of the sons of Jerubaal 
to be his successor and their king. The purpose of The 

[6] 



Li 



THE HISTORY OF THE SHORT STORY 

Book of Ruth may have been any one of three or four : 
To show the lineage of David ; to show that Jehovah of 
the Israelites might also be the God of a Moabite — a 
foreigner; to show how faithfulness and service are 
rewarded; or some similar theme. The Book of Jonah 
is probably as pure a piece of fiction as Jesus' parable of 
The Prodigal Son. The Israelites had all along thought 
of Jehovah as a national deity. Some prophet with a 
wider vision than the mass of his countrymen wished 
to teach them that there are no village gods and national 
gods, but that Jehovah is God of the whole world — of 
the solid land, of the sea and the creatures of the deep, 
of even distant heathen Nineveh, as well as of Canaan. 
To impress this truth he told the story of a prophet 
who did everything he could to avoid that conclusion 
and to disregard God's command to preach in Nineveh, 
and closed his tale on a half -humorous note — Jonah 
sulking in the shade of the gourd vine because God had 
shown mercy to a people not of Israel. The Prodigal 
Son differs from this story in that it avoids actual names 
and places. It is presented as pure fiction to impress a 
definite theme. Just as an earthly father forgives a 
wayward son, so does the Heavenly Father forgive his 
own wayward ones when they return repentant from 
their wanderings. In The Book of Jonah the prophet 
veiled his fiction behind the fact that somewhere in the 
indistinct past there had been a lesser prophet named 
Jonah to whom he could ascribe his imaginary experi- 
ences. These books of The Old Testament were probably 
written somewhere between B. C. 350 and B. C. 750. 

Greek and Roman Tales. — Although the Greeks were 
masters in other forms of art and literature, their 

[7] 






THE SHORT STORY 



contribution to fiction is so small and so little known as to 
have made little or no impression upon subsequent 
writers of tales. What little was done by the Greeks 
and Romans is briefly reviewed both as to matter and 
treatment in Home's The Technique of the Novel, Chap- 
ter iv. Students who wish to go into that subject should 
read the chapter. There is, however, one book which 
should not be omitted from this account. Early in the 
second Christian century Lucius Apuleius, a Roman 
Platonic philosopher, born in Africa, wrote in Latin a 
book called Metamorphoses, or The Golden Ass. It is 
a loosely connected narrative with occasionally a detached 
episode, standing out as a distinct tale. The story 
of Cupid and Psyche is such an episode, and one which 
has survived to the present time. 

Gesta Romanorum. — There are two remarkable cir- 
cumstances about the collection of stories called Gesta 
Romanorum (Deeds of the Romans). The first is that 
this Latin book was probably written in England (about 
1300) ; and the second, that only a few of the 181 tales 
in the common text have anything* to do with the Romans. 
This book, to which we look with great respect as the 
inspiration of many a writer of tales and the source of 
many a plot still used in fiction, is a collection of about 
all the good stories known to the medieval man at that 
time. Dr. W. J. Dawson, in his Great English Short 
Story Writers, gives a hint of the influence of these sto- 
ries when he shows how the germ of one of Aristotle's 
stories was preserved in the eleventh tale of Gesta Ro- 
manorum. This tale called, Of the Poison of Sin, subse- 
quently furnished the plot used by Hawthorne in Rap- 
picinni's Daughter, by Holmes in Elsie Tenner, and by 

[8] 



THE HISTORY OF THE SHORT STORY 

Richard Garnett in The Poison Maid. Other of these plots 
may easily be traced in modern stories. 

This book was not prepared for mere entertainment, 
however. Each of the tales is followed by a moral appli- 
cation. One may readily surmise that the medieval 
parish priest used these stories to illustrate his sermons, 
much as the Lives of the Saints formed the nucleus of 
their homilies. 

The reader must remember that these stories were not 
invented by the compiler of the book. They were merely 
collected from all known sources, and some of them, at 
least, are as old as the love of fiction itself. 

Beast Fables and Picaresque Tales. — Two other forms 
of ancient fiction helped to mould the love for short 
tales in prose. These are the Beast Fables, such as 
Aesop's Fables, the Stories of Reynard the Fox, and 
Joel Chandler Harris' modern Uncle Remus Stories; 
and Rogue Stories (called picaresque from the Spanish 
picar, a rogue), such as the German Hans Eulenspiegel, 
the Spanish Little Lazarus of Tormes, the English adven- 
ture stories of Sir John Mandeville, and those of that 
other cheerful and picturesque liar, Baron Munchausen. 
Each of these, and the fairy tale too, has contributed 
something, either of character, setting, or incident to 
the technic of the modern Short Story. 

Boccaccio's The Decameron (1353). — There is an Ital- 
ian collection of stories in prose which exerted as great 
an influence upon the makers of fiction as the Gesta 
Romanorum. This is the hundred tales (Decameron) of 
the Italian poet, Boccaccio, 1313-1375. Like the Gesta 
Romanorum this is again just a collection of well-known 
tales held together by an enveloping plot similar to those 

[9] 



THE SHORT STORY 



used later by Chaucer, in The Canterbury Tales, and 
Longfellow, in The Tales of a Wayside Inn. One of the 
most famous of these stories of The Decameron is The 
Story of Patient Griselda used by Chaucer about 1386 
as The Clerk's Tale. Chaucer says in his prologue to 
this tale that he learned it from the Laureate Poet 
Frauncys Petrarch at Padua. Petrarch was a friend of 
Boccaccio, and was probably visited by Chaucer on one 
of his trips to Italy. 

The passion for collecting old tales and weaving them 
together after the fashion of The Decameron was wide- 
spread. Similar books were made by Gower (Confessio 
Amantis), by Lydgate (Fall of Princes), and by others 
in England in the early fifteenth century. 

Sir Thomas Malory f s Morte d' Arthur. — More im- 
portant than any other of these medieval books, and 
the one which has exerted the largest influence on English 
literature, is one which has been used but little by the 
writers of fiction — the Morte d' Arthur (about 1470) of 
Sir Thomas Malory. This book is the final medieval 
form of the stories of King Arthur, and was the prin- 
cipal source of Tennyson's Arthurian Cycle, The Idylls 
of the King. 

Episodes in Longer Stories. — In these paragraphs the 
progress of short tales in prose has been sketched from 
the earliest known beginnings to comparatively modern 
times. Before we begin to consider the change from 
the ancient prose tale to the modern Short Story, how- 
ever, some account must be taken of episodes which 
occasionally appeared as chapters in longer works of 
fiction. There are chapters in Cervantes' Don Quixote, 
in Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, and in other early works 

[10] 



THE HISTORY OF THE SHORT STORY 

of fiction, which, taken from the book, make distinct 
units. The technic of the modern novel does not admit 
the digression of the detached episode, but after the 
advent of the real novel, while yet its form was plastic, 
such unrelated episodes were admitted. The Tale of the 
Old Man of the Hill, in Fielding's Tom Jones (1748), 
Wandering Willie's Tale in Scott's Bedgauntlet (1824), 
and The Princess' Tragedy in Thackeray's Barry Lyndon 
illustrate the employment of this device. Had there 
been public taste and a vehicle for publication for the 
Short Story such as we have in our modern magazines, 
it is probable that these novelists would have omitted 
such digressions from their larger stories and published 
them in the magazines as Short Stories, just as many of 
our novelists now use the chips from their workshops, the 
episodes in their larger pieces of fiction. 

The Influence of the Essayists. — Printing had come 
to be comparatively inexpensive, and readers quite 
numerous by the beginning of the eighteenth century. 
There was, accordingly, a demand for cheap periodical 
publications by a body of readers large enough to war- 
rant the experiment. The contents of such papers as 
The Spectator and The Tatler of Addison and Steele, and 
The Guardian of Johnson were news of the town and 
social comment, and commonly an essay, usually light 
in tone, concerning some topic which the author thought 
would be of general interest. Occasionally one of these 
essays was presented in the form of fiction — a brief 
tale. Sometimes these sketches were loosely joined 
together by an enveloping fiction, as in the series of 
essays by Addison called The Sir Roger de Coverly 
Papers. A better example of fiction in these periodical 

[ii] 



THE SHORT STORY 



publications is the detached story called The Vision of 
Mirza. 

No doubt such pieces as these inspired the writers of 
fiction of the early years of the nineteenth century and 
turned them toward the tale, refined and polished in 
style, but still lacking some of the essential qualities 
of the Short Story. Prominent among these writers was 
the Scotch poet, James Hogg (1770-1885), " The Ettrick 
Shepherd "; and the American, Washington Irving 
(1783-1859 ) . From the volume of Tales and Sketches of 
the former Dr. Dawson selects the story of The Mysterious 
Bride as a typical Short Story. Irving 's tales, The 
Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle, are 
familiar to all. 

Hawthorne and Poe* — As any form of art is growing 
toward perfection, those who practice it are usually 
unconscious of the technical processes which they employ. 
The genius, once in a long while, manages his materials 
in such a way as to produce the artistic result ; but even 
the genius in the formative period of the art follows no 
law but the law of necessity, which he instinctively feels 
will produce the effect he desires. When such an artistic 
effect has been produced a few dozens of times, then 
men of analytic minds study the processes employed by 
the great artists and deduce the technical principles 
involved in the production of the artistic effect. Such a 
body of technical knowledge once having been established 
is the common property ever after of both the true artist 
and the mere craftsman. The greatest genius of all is 

♦For a discriminating criticism of Poe and Hawthorne 
see American Prose Masters by Brownell, W. C. — Charles 
Scribner's Sons. 

[12] 



THE HISTORY OF THE SHORT STORY 

the one who has the instinctive power to create, and then 
becomes conscious of the means which he has used. In 
dramatic literature Shakespeare was such a genius. He 
had the creative mind of the unconscious artist ; then he 
became consciously aware of the means which were 
needed to produce a given effect — of the minute details 
of the technic of dramatic poetry and stage craft — and 
so he is reckoned the greatest dramatic poet of the world. 

The honor of producing the genius, who first became 
conscious of the technic of the Short Story is perhaps 
due to America. In a measure Hawthorne (1804-1864) 
was conscious of the means he used. In a greater measure 
this consciousness of means was Poe 's ( 1809-1849 ) . Short 
Stories were produced before the time of these men, but 
when a writer succeeded in producing such a story, it 
seemed by chance that he did so, for he did not follow 
up his success by writing other stories in which he 
employed the elements of artistic technic seized by chance 
in the successful Short Story. 

If we reduce the technical requirements of the real 
story to the very lowest terms — say the necessity of 
producing a single narrative effect — we shall find a 
number of tales before Hawthorne's and Poe's which 
meet this single technical specification : Defoe 's The Ap- 
parition of Mrs. Veal (1706), Addison's The Vision of 
Mirza (1711), Hogg's The Mysterious Bride (1820), 
Scott's Wandering Willie's Tale (1824), Austin's Peter 
Rugg, The Missing Man (1824), Irving 's Rip Van 
Winkle (1819), and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (1819) 
— each of these succeeds in producing a single narrative 
effect. But when we add to this singleness of impression 
other elements which we now consider essential, such as 

[13] 



THE SHORT STORY 



the greatest economy of means, the embodiment of a 
theme, unity of tone, the use of fitting background, truth 
in the portrayal of characters, etc., we find that most of 
them, perhaps all, fall short in one or more of these 
particular requirements. 

Admitting that there were many delightful tales before 
the time of Poe and Hawthorne, even some true short 
stories, we must reassert that it was these men who 
became conscious of the art of story writing and made 
use of their knowledge time after time in writing their 
stories. 

The Modem Short Story. — Since Poe pointed out the 
way, there have been thousands of writers of Short 
Stories the world over, and hundreds of these — first, 
second, and maybe tenth-rate writers — have understood 
the art better than either Poe or Hawthorne. Among 
these hundreds there have been a few men and women 
of genius with great stories to tell and a thorough mastery 
of the mechanics of their art who have, as a consequence, 
surpassed even the greatest geniuses, men who had the 
materials without the conscious knowledge of technic. 

The Short Story in recent years has become so effective 
a means of representing life that no one today needs to 
feel that the serious novel is the only form of fiction 
worthy of study and consideration. Compared with the 
more extensive novel, the Short Story is what the sonnet 
is to the longer lyric poem — an artistic vessel of a 
definite form into which an author may pour his plastic 
material and fix some great and worthy idea as in a 
mould of beauty. 

The technic once established, masters of the art of 
Short Story writing have sprung up in nearly every 

[14] 



THE HISTORY OF THE SHORT STORY 

civilized country; but America and France have led, 
with England, Russia, and Germany closely following. 
In all these countries the writers have recognized the 
essentials of Short Story technic, but mechanical per- 
fection has been approached most nearly in France and 
America. The present treatise does not assert that every 
piece of fiction worthy of the name of Short Story will 
conform to every technical detail of the typical Short 
Story, but it does set up certain standards to which the 
Short Story as a type of fiction must conform, making 
due allowances for individuality in authors and in pieces 
of work. To make clear what those technical elements 
of the Short Story are will be the business of the follow- 
ing chapters. 

The Chronological Development of the Short Story. — 
Those who are interested in the development of the Short 
Story from its beginnings in English until the present 
time may find a scholarly and illuminating treatment 
of this phase of the subject in Dr. Henry Seidel Canby's 
The Short Story in English. This book is an exhaustive 
account, a * ' documented investigation, ' ' of the evolution 
of this phase of fiction in English. 

A briefer treatment of the same subject may be seen in 
his A Study of the Short Story, pp. 1-77. For a series of 
stories arranged chronologically to illustrate the histor- 
ical development of the Short Story the reader is referred 
to the same volume, pp. 79-273, or to Brander Matthews' 
The Short Story, or to Jessup and Canby 's The Book of 
the Short Story. It is not the purpose of the present 
volume to enlarge upon this phase of the subject. That 
has been so well taken care of in these other books that 
there is no justification for going over it again. What 

[15] 



THE SHORT STORY 



follows will be a study of the form and meaning of the 
Short Story as it is written by the masters of today. 

REFERENCES 

Canby, Henry S. A Study of the Short Story, and The 
Short Story in English. Henry Holt & Co. 

Dawson, W. J., and Coningsby Wm. The Great English 
Short Story Writers. Vol. i, Chap. I. Harper & 
Brothers. 

Hamilton, Clayton. Materials and Methods of Fiction. 
Introduction. Doubleday, Page & Company. 

Home, Charles F. The Technique of the Novel. Pp. 
8-11. Harper & Brothers. 

Esenwein, J. Berg. Writing the Short Story. Chap, 
i. Hinds, Noble & Eldredge. 

Jessup and Canby. The Book of the Short Story. Intro- 
duction and Introductions to Chapters. D. Appleton 
& Co. 

Matthews, Brander. The Short Story. Introduction. 
American Book Company. 

Mabie, Hamilton "W. Stories New and Old. Introduc- 
tion. The Macmillan Company. 



ris] 



CHAPTER II 

THE MATERIALS FROM WHICH STORIES ARE 

MADE 

A CARPENTER who starts to construct as simple 
and common a thing as a rack for drying- clothes 
needs to have a plan in mind before beginning. If he 
has no plan, he may not come provided with all the 
tools and materials needed for his work. He would also 
run the risk of spoiling some of his material by cutting 
inaccurately — too long or too short. A contractor who 
agrees to build a house — a more complex structure than 
a clotheshorse — cannot proceed with nothing more 
definite than a mental picture of the finished building 
as his only guide. He must have an architect's drawings 
— floor plans, elevations, perspective, and detail sheets, 
and also a set of specifications describing the quality, 
the kind, and the quantity of the material to be used. 

In like manner the writer who is to make a definite 
impression, artistic, firm, and convincing of reality, 
would risk the waste of good material and the stability 
and beauty of the finished work if he did not have in 
mind, if not actually on paper, the plans and specifica- 
tions of his novel or story. An architect's plans and 
specifications correspond pretty closely to the materials 
the writer of fiction has to use and the methods he may 
adopt for the economical and effective use of the mate- 
rial. 

[17] 



THE SHORT STORY 



THE STORY WRITER'S MATERIALS 

Polonius: What is it you read, my lord? 
Hamlet: Words, words, words. 

Stories, it is true, are made of words, but it would be 
merely witty, and a trifle insolent today, as it was in 
Hamlet's day, to say we read " Words, words, words/ ' 
Words are only vehicles for the conveyance of ideas 
from mind to mind. The actual materials at the com- 
mand of the story writer are three : 

1. People. 2. Incidents. 3. Setting. 

People. — Instead of people one is tempted to say 
characters, for there are a number of good stories about 
animals and a few concerning inanimate objects. But 
after all when we read such stories, they interest us 
because the characters exhibit human qualities or reflect 
some light on human nature. Edward Peple has 
written a capital story, A Night Out, in which the prin- 
cipal actors and speakers are cats — a patrician, blue- 
blooded Thomas, a disreputable, alley Tom and some of 
his female friends of doubtful gentility. This story is 
true to cat character, but we are interested in it because 
the author has humorously hit off some human charac- 
teristics, which are too serious to be treated lightly in a 
piece of fiction dealing with people, and which would 
lose much in attractiveness if treated as a profound 
study in human psychology, such as it really is. Charles 
Johnstone's Chrysal, or The Adventures of a Guinea, 
was interesting to readers a hundred and fifty years 
ago, not because it related the journeyings and experi- 
ences of a piece of money, a coin, but because it pictured 

[18] 



THE MATERIALS 



the life of people in various social levels and in various 
places. After all, then, a story, to be interesting to 
human beings, must be a story about people. 

Incidents. — A writer who wishes to go beyond mere 
portrait painting, one who wishes to get his people into 
some sort of action, must have them do something or 
have something happen to them. There have been seen 
in print many excellent ' ' character sketches ' ' — pic- 
tures of interesting or odd people in some characteristic 
pose or action. 

" The Lady with the Fringe," Current Opinion, Feb- 
ruary, 1913, is a remarkably good example of a sketch, 
though the " lady " is in action — " carryin' the bag, 
young feller, carryin' the bag." Incidents are the 
things that characters do, or the things which happen to 
the characters. When the student comes to the study 
of plot and theme, he will see that the incidents must be 
arranged in such a way as to develop a theme. They 
cannot be set down haphazard ; but for our present pur- 
pose it is sufficient to say that the two main elements out 
of which stories are evolved are characters and incidents. 

Setting. — School dramatics are sometimes arranged 
to be presented without any stage properties or scenery 
beyond the usual schoolroom platform, desk, and chairs. 
But these little plays take on new life when the stage 
is set to present a picture of the place and time repre- 
sented by the drama, and the characters themselves 
appear in appropriate costumes. The setting, or back- 
ground, of a story does for the piece of fiction just what 
painted scenery, stage properties, costumes, and super- 
numeraries do for a play. 

Setting includes Place, Time, and Conditions, and 

[19] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Atmosphere and Tone as well, as they are imagined at 
the time preceding or at the beginning of the story. In 
fact the background of a story is made up of all the 
elements which the author combines to prevent the action 
from seeming to take place in some vague, blank locality. 
In other words, the setting gives to the characters aud 
incidents " a local habitation and a name." 

STORIES OF CHARACTER, OF INCIDENT OR OF SETTING 

The first attempts to classify stories in terms of their 
construction recognized a predominating element. A 
story was called "a story of setting" if the picture pre- 
sented by the background was more attractive than either 
incidents or characters. It was considered " a story of 
character " if character portrayal or development 
seemed uppermost in the author's mind. Or it was " a 
story of incident " if what happened was of greater 
interest than the people or the time and place. 

Some writers have gone so far as to say that the pre- 
dominating element should reveal its presence and impor- 
tance in the opening paragraph of the story. A story 
opening with conversation would be a story of character. 
One beginning with a descriptive paragraph would be 
throughout a story of setting. And one whose first para- 
graph related a happening would oe considered a story of 
incident. 

There are a few writers of short stories who seem to 
have consciously striven to sound the keynote in the 
opening sentence or paragraph by emphasizing charac- 
ter, or setting, or incident. Poe once said that the end 
of the story must be in the writer's mind at the very 
beginning, and that the first paragraph, the first sen- 

[20] 



THE MATERIALS 



tence, must be a part of the preparation for the culmina- 
tion. 

This statement was probably the foundation of the 
belief that a story of a certain kind had to begin with 
material of its own kind. Poe had in mind, perhaps, 
the ultimate solution of the story which was to be held 
in suspense till the end, but foreseen from the beginning 
and foreshadowed by the enveloping atmosphere from 
the very first word. While many of his stories exemplify 
the principle under discussion, it seems more likely that 
it should just have happened so, incidentally, in striking 
the dominant tone and creating the pervading atmos- 
phere in the opening paragraphs. One does not often 
see in other short stories any evidence of any established 
conviction that stories of character must begin with 
some remark about a character or some speech of a char- 
acter; that stories of incident must start off with an 
incident ; or stories of setting with description. 

THE PREDOMINANT ELEMENT 

Some one of the three elements is usually more promi- 
nent than the other two, although in most cases all three 
are present. As an exercise in technical skill, an author 
might write a story in which setting itself would be made 
much of without any emphasis upon either character or 
incidents. One could conceive of an author's wish to 
make a larger body of readers than he could reach with 
a descriptive essay acquainted with a scene that he knew 
and was fond of. Let him make a story with vague 
figures passing through a series of slight incidents tak- 
ing place in some enchanting corner of the world and 
one would have a story of setting. These are not 

[21] 



THE SHORT STORY 



common. Poe's The Domain of Arnheim is one such, how- 
ever, although not technically a Short Story. 

It would be possible to write a story the action of which 
should take place in some vague, unidentified locality, 
with no description of the setting, and no hint as to the 
kind of stage upon which the drama was enacted. The 
characters in such a story might be indistinct — little 
more than figures endowed with the power of voluntary 
motion — but the story might present incidents so ab- 
sorbing that the reader would take no notice of the blank 
background and the characterless figures. This would 
be a story of incident. In the modern Short Story such 
extreme exaltation of incident is not common, but in the 
tales of the Arabian Nights it is often seen. In fact, the 
incidents in ancient tales might have occurred almost 
anywhere to almost anyone. They were almost pure tales 
of incident. In such modern Short Stories as Poe 's The 
Pit and the Pendulum, Merimee's The Taking of the 
Redoubt, and Stockton's The Lady or the Tiger ? char- 
acter and setting are subordinated to incident. 

Or again character might be magnified to the practical 
exclusion of the other two elements, as it is in The 
Prodigal Son; but in most of our modern stories no one 
of the three elements excludes the other two. The com- 
monest form of story is a story portraying or developing 
a character, with incident and setting adequately 
employed but subordinated to the element of character; 
either that or one in which the incidents are made more 
prominent than the characters or background. 

A story could hardly be written in which character, 
incident, and background should be kept equally promi- 
nent, nor is it desirable that one should be so written. 

[22] 



THE MATERIALS 



The great story is one which shows development in a 
character which is significant and worth knowing, mak- 
ing this apparent by means of a series of incidents, inter- 
esting and attention-compelling in themselves, with all 
exhibited upon a stage of action, a background or setting, 
worthy of the people and the incidents. The study of 
any literary form should be an aid to the student in 
determining whether a piece is of merely temporary 
interest or of such a quality as to be of permanent value. 
In other words, the student who comes to understand 
what qualities are to be expected will be able to distin- 
guish between the good and bad, the indifferent and the 
poor. Let it be understood that a short story to be well 
worth while must embody a theme which is true, and 
which is important enough to repay the reader for the 
time spent in thinking it through, and that this theme 
must be artistically presented by the use of incidents and 
a setting commensurate with the idea, and the student 
will have at his command the first principles upon which 
to base a judgment of the stories which he reads. 

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 

An interesting study might be made of the beginnings 
of a number of stories to determine whether authors con- 
sciously begin stories of character with conversation or a 
remark about a character, stories of incident with action, 
and stories of setting with a descriptive paragraph. To 
do this effectively the reader would have to determine 
with very good judgment, in the first place, which of the 
three elements, character, incident, or setting, is pre- 
dominant in each story, and then observe the author's 
method of beginning. If a group of readers would take 

[23] 



THE SHORT STORY 



the trouble to work together through a hundred stories 
in this way, they could determine with a fair degree of 
accuracy whether this plan is followed deliberately as a 
rule, or only by chance and occasionally by the standard 
writers. The results should be set down in percentages 
for the sake of quick comparisons. 

Tabulate the results as follows : 

Of the whole number of stories read how many were 

1. Stor-ies in which character is the predominating 
element? 

2. Stories in which incident is the predominating 
element? 

3. Stories in which setting is the predominating ele- 
ment? 

How many of these in the opening paragraph or para- 
graphs foreshadow the type of story that is to follow, 

1. Of the stories of character? 

2. Of the stories of incident? 

3. Of the stories of setting? 

Combine these results in a final statement as follows: 

1. What per cent observe the so-called rule for begin- 
nings? 

2. What per cent ignore the rule ? 

State your conclusion from your investigation as to 
whether the rule is followed by the masters of the Short 
Story with a consistency sufficient to make it advisable 
for the beginner in story writing always to observe it. 



[24] 



CHAPTER III 

! THE SHORT STORY IS AN IMPRESSION FROM 

LIFE 



LIKEthe novel, the Short Story is a piece of fiction 
-J producing a unified effect. Unlike the novel, its 
! single effect is usually an impression, instead of a de- 
' liberate marshalling together of a large number of di- 
verse elements into a unity. The novel is complex — 
many experiences, usually of a number of people, pieced 
together into unity. It is a broad cross-section of life; 
broad enough to cut through many experiences of many 
people, but still showing them as a unified part of 
life. The Short Story is a cross-section of life, too, 
but of a single life or at most of a thread of life 
where it crosses and becomes entangled with one or two 
other subordinated threads — a section through the knot. 
To illustrate this in a concrete way: George Eliot's 
Silas Marner shows how a man's soul may be saved 
alive through the influence of a child. The method of 
the novelist is to exhibit the man at a moment when his 
soul is ' * nearest the city of destruction, ' ' and then, inci- 
dent by incident, to show the soul growing back into right 
relationships with mankind, and a renewed trust in God. 
The Short Story writer must be impressionistic. He 
must be swift, choosing one or two incidents near the 
culmination of the novelist's series, and merely hinting 
at the other incidents of the series and the other people 

[25] 



THE SHORT STORY 



involved, he must produce a convincing impression of 
the truth of his theme. This same theme in Short Story 
form, is used in Bret Harte's The Luck of Roaring Camp. 
It cannot be assumed, however, that the culminating 
chapters of a novel could be drawn off and used as a 
Short Story. The mechanical structure of the Story is 
as distinct and complete as that of the novel, and while 
in some cases the culminating chapters of a novel might 
furnish the material for a Short Story, that material 
would have to be worked into the form of a Short Story 
before it could stand alone. 

HOW THE IMPRESSION IS MADE 

Assuming that a Short Story is an impression from 
life, the first topic that presents itself for elucidation is 
the technical means which may be employed to make 
that impression. Let us call the impression which the 
author wishes to make The Theme of the Story. All 
other devices, technical processes, materials, and methods 
of handling the materials may be called the means which 
are to be used in the process of making the theme clear 
to the reader, and so impressive that it shall be effective. 
In the main these means are enumerated below. 

WHAT IS MEANT BY THE THEME 

The theme of a piece of fiction is the central idea 
which the author wishes to set forth in his story. It is 
that phenomenon of nature or of human life which he 
wishes to make clear to his readers. The theme has been 
called the " meaning " of the piece of literature. When 
Edgar Allan Poe spoke of the " single narrative effect " 
toward which every part of the story leads, he probably 

[26] 



AN IMPRESSION FROM LIFE 

had in mind the same thing that we now have when we 
speak of " the theme," "the essential meaning," " the 
underlying idea, ' ' ' ' the thesis, ' ' etc., etc. 

THE MEANS USED IN DEVELOPING A THEME 

Having determined what particular ' ' impression from 
life " he is to present in his story, the author 's next step 
is to take stock of the means at his command capable of 
being used in exhibiting this theme. The following list 
includes most of these. They are: Plot, Characters, 
Setting, Emotion, Tone, Appearance of Truth, Suspense, 
Suggestion and Restraint, and Style. The detailed 
treatment of these matters is taken up in later 
chapters. 

A CLASSIFICATION OF THEMES 

It is a mistake to think that the theme of a story is 
the same as the moral which used to be attached to a 
fable, or that the theme can always be stated in the form 
of a moral or philosophical truth. In many cases it is 
doubtful whether the author ever consciously formulated 
the theme. But it is true that a story, if it is worth 
while at all, does embody some significant impression of 
life. This impression may admit of a positive statement 
in the form of a truth, such as ' ' The good are rewarded, 
and the wicked punished, ' ' but it need not. Themes are 
so different in their nature that no clear idea of their 
variety can be obtained without grouping them like with 
like. 

"While the theme of a story is an impression of life, 
it is not often that a story writer is content merely to 
build up a story around an impression, although that 
method has been used occasionally by writers of the 

[27] 



THE SHORT STORY 



highest rank. Ordinarily the author, having made some 
observation of life and having discovered what he regards 
as a truth, wishes to put that discovery before the world 
in a convincing piece of fiction. Rudyard Kipling 
conceives it as possible that sometimes one man and one 
woman are born for each other, and that, being so 
intended for each other, half the world cannot keep 
them apart. This theme he puts into the story of The 
Brushwood Boy. Knowing the power which the human 
will exerts upon the physical being, Edgar Allan Poe 
imagines the possibility of a will strong enough to over- 
come death itself. This is the theme of Ligeia. De 
Maupassant observes that effects in nature are sometimes 
out of all proportion to causes. Twice he embodies this 
idea in fiction — in The Piece of String and in The Neck- 
lace. Stated concretely, this theme is actually worded in 
the latter, " "What a little thing it takes to make you 
or to lose you. ' ' Enough has been shown in these three 
examples chosen at random to indicate that themes are 
of various kinds. It is hardly possible under half a 
dozen headings to classify all ' the kinds of themes, for 
there are sure to be, now and then, stories which refuse 
to submit to the bonds of general classification. Never- 
theless, under a few heads the typical themes may be 
cataloged. 

Dr. Henry van Dyke has said, very probably in answer 
to many inquiries, concerning the meaning of The Other 
Wise Man, that the whole meaning could not be put into 
a single sentence. If it were possible to do so, he says, 
the story would hardly be worth the telling. This state- 
ment seems temperate and just ; but at the same time we 
believe that the large meaning of the stdry is perfectly 

[28] 



AN IMPRESSION FROM LIFE 

clear to every discriminating reader, and that it can be 
stated in a single sentence. This moving story says, 
The way to worship the Savior and to serve God is to 
do the Savior's will and God's work in the act of serv- 
ing one's fellow men. " Inasmuch as ye have done it 
unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have 
done it unto me." Some other " lessons " which might 
be drawn from this story are: One would be justified 
in telling a lie if by so doing the life of a little child 
might be saved; or a lifetime spent in seeking the 
Christ is not misspent. These are but two of the many 
worthy thoughts suggested by the story, but who would 
place these above the larger theme which the author 
keeps constantly before the reader ? Dr. van Dyke keeps 
this thought ever prominent, no matter what others are 
offered as the story progresses toward its culmination. 

In determining what the theme of a story is the begin- 
ner must guard against confusing the terms " theme " 
and " moral." He must not ask, What does this story 
teach? for many stories do not teach at all in the sense 
of presenting a moral lesson. But rather let him begin 
his statement of the theme by saying to himself, The 
author's purpose in writing this story was to show that 
— etc. Sometimes the theme is a lesson, a ' ' moral ' ' ; 
but more commonly it is not. The theme of The Other 
Wise Man could be stated either way. As a moral it 
would read: The lesson (or moral) of this story is that 
one can best serve God by doing His work in the world. 
Stated as meaning it would be like this: The author's 
purpose was to show that one best serves God who loves 
mercy and does justice to his fellow men. These two 
statements are practically identical, but the themes of 

[29] 



THE SHORT STORY 



stories not of the moral type cannot be stated in the 
manner of the first formula. Take, for example, Jack 
London's story of character, entitled Samuel. Here we 
have a true impression of life. Stated in terms of the 
author's primary purpose the theme is as follows: This 
story was written to delineate the character of a woman, 
with a liking for a name, without a touch of superstition, 
and with a will so indomitable as to make it impossible 
for her to compromise with her convictions, no matter 
how strongly prompted to do so by the calamities which 
befell her, or how often her simple and superstitious 
neighbors suggested compromise or surrender to her. 
The story is an inquiry into the reasons for liking or 
disliking — the old woman's haunting question, " The 
why of like. ' ' Try to state the theme asa" moral, ' ' and 
you have something like this: If you tempt God with 
a foolish persistency, He will visit you with untold 
calamity. And this the author apparently does not be- 
lieve. Assuredly he does not allow such a conviction to 
take possession of his principal character, Margaret 
Henan. To her the cause of calamity is just as much a 
mystery as it is to Job, for she, like Job, is unaware of 
any sin at all commensurate with her sorrows. 

GROUPS OF THEMES 

1. The Exhibition of Some Natural Law, or Apparent 
Lawlessness of Nature. — A story might be made to 
illustrate even so prosaic a thing as the physical law, 
Action and reaction are equal and in opposite direc- 
tions. Likewise the philosophical law, Like causes pro- 
duce like effects, might be embodied in a short story. 
These would be themes illustrating natural laws; but 

[30] 



AN IMPRESSION FROM LIFE 

when De Maupassant shows how picking up a piece 
of string ultimately caused the death of an old peasant, 
his theme is the irony of fate. He shows how the effect 
of an insignificant action is sometimes out of all 
proportion to the cause. 

2. An Illustration of a Phase of Human Nature. — In 
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Robert Louis Stevenson shows 
that both good and evil are in the nature of man, and 
that the lower, meaner part subdues the nobler if occa- 
sionally allowed to run riot. A deep conviction of the 
newer psychology was anticipated in Robert Herrick's 
The Master of the Inn. In this story he says that if the 
half -forgotten troubles of the soul which lie below the 
level of consciousness can be brought to the surface and 
aired in oral confession, the physical ills, indirectly 
caused by the blot on the soul, will vanish and leave the 
body strong and responsive to the will. 

One other illustration of this kind of theme is seen in 
James Lane Allen's Old King Solomon of Kentucky. 
No matter how low a man may sink, the story seems to 
declare, there is some spark of the heroic left in him, and 
this may be aroused if the stimulus be of the right kind, 
at the right time, and sufficiently strong. 

3. The Exhibition of Some Human Passion in a Strik- 
ing^ Unusual, or Tense Situation. — The passion most 
frequently exhibited in magazine fiction is love. But 
writers have used over and over all the elemental human 
passions, such as hate, fear, jealousy, indignation, super- 
stition, devotion to duty, loyalty to friends or kinsmen, 
loyalty to clan or country, and the like. 

Hamlin Garland's Among the Corn Rows is an excel- 
lent example of the story built upon the theme of love. 

[31] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Jealousy is the theme of James B. Connolly 's The Truth 
of the Oliver Cromwell; Indignation is exhibited in Mary 
E. Wilkins-Freeman 's The Revolt of Mother; Supersti- 
tion, in Arthur Morrison's On the Stairs. 

The student should not expect to be able to relate every 
touch that the writer puts into his story to a single 
theme element, uncolored by others. For example, the 
setting of each of the stories mentioned in this group is 
so carefully treated that along with his main impression, 
his theme, the author, without doubt, was very much 
interested in the place and the people. 

The student needs to be warned against the statement 
of themes in terms so general that they do not discrim- 
inate at all. It is easy to say that a story is " a love 
story, ' ' " a southern story, " or " a sea story ' ' without 
being specific about the truth of life which it contains. 
In most cases such designations apply to the setting and 
not to the theme at all. 

4. The Reproduction of a Phase of Life in a Given 
Time, Place, or Occupation. — Authors do not ordi- 
narily use place, time, and occupation as the themes 
of stories. These are usually nothing more than the set- 
ting, or background, for some theme of greater general 
interest. Once in a while, however, we see stories which 
appear to be written with no other purpose than to make 
a picture of life, bringing forward what is usually the 
'background, and placing it in the focus of interest as the 
main theme. New England village life is exhibited in 
Mrs. Wilkins-Freeman J s A Village Lear; life in old New 
Orleans and the South, in Mr. Cable's " Posson J one 9 "; 
newspaper life, in Mr. Davis's A Derelict; and Colorado 
mining life in Mr. Garland's The Spirit of Sweetwater. 

[32] 



AN IMPRESSION FROM LIFE 

In all of these stories, place, time, and occupation are 
background and not theme. In other words, A Derelict 
belongs in group two with Mr. Allen's Old King Solo- 
mon of Kentucky. Mr. Garland's The Spirit of Sweet- 
water is a story of the regenerating power of love, and 
belongs to group three. However, in Pere Raphael, the 
sequel to " Posson Jone'," Mr. Cable seems to have had 
in mind no other theme than the reproduction of a phase 
of life in a particular place at a particular time — the 
New Orleans of 1820. It properly belongs to group 
four. 

5. The Delineation of Character. — The characters 
pictured in stories whose main purpose is character 
portrayal are in most cases in some way unusual, strik- 
ing, odd, or peculiar. Examples of short stories having 
character portrayal as the objective point — the theme 
— may be seen in Mr. Quiller-Couch 's The Drawn Blind; 
in Ruth McEnery Stuart's Napoleon Jackson, and 
in Thomas Bailey Aldrich's Quite So. Since, however, 
the peculiarity in the character of Cordelia Pinsent 
in The Drawn Blind is the inability to believe her 
son capable of doing wrong (a characteristic of mothers 
generally), the story might be put into group three. 
Mr. Quiller-Couch seems, however, to have been more 
interested in showing how the confidence in the integ- 
rity of her son was exhibited by this particular mother, 
than in the elucidation of the general idea that mothers 
fail to see the short-comings of their sons and daughters. 

6. The Development or Disintegration of Char- 
acter Under the Stress of Some Emotion or Circum- 
stance. — This group will overlap both group five and 
group three, but many examples may be cited in which 

[33] 



THE SHORT STORY 



the main purpose of the author was to show development 
or breaking down of character under emotional stress. 
Hawthorne's The Great Stone Face shows development; 
De Maupassant's The Coward shows disintegration 
under the strain of physical fear. Because of the fact 
that the story is limited in length there is hardly room 
for much growth of character, for growth is not a mush- 
room process where human character is concerned. Only 
a few great Short Stories have adequately managed 
character development. Character portrayal is the busi- 
ness of the Short Story writer ; realistic character devel- 
opment, that of the novelist. The Short Story writer 
may, however, create so convincing an impression of 
character growth or disintegration as to produce the illu- 
sion of the whole process in actual operation. This is 
one of the supreme tests of the literary genius, and is 
worth striving for. 

7. An Impression of Life. — Hawthorne was in the 
habit of setting down in his note books vague impres- 
sions with the intention of making a story at some later 
time to embody the impression. One of his notes reads, 
* ' The print of blood of a naked foot to be traced through 
the streets of a town. ' ' This impression is probably the 
germ of Dr. Grimshaiv's Secret. Henry James con- 
fesses that the appearance of a peculiar or striking char- 
acter often inspires him to invent a setting and incidents 
in which such a character might naturally act a sig- 
nificant part. Robert Louis Stevenson once told his 
cousin, Graham Balfour, that the impression of atmos- 
phere led him to create the characters and incidents of 
The Merry Men, his purpose being to convey to others 
the feeling he himself had had when he saw the island 

[34] 



AN IMPRESSION FROM LIFE 

which is the setting for that story. One could well 
believe that Stevenson had no other purpose in mind 
than to contrast the vagabond poet Villon with the com- 
fortable but colorless citizen, Seigneur de Brisetout, in 
A Lodging for the Night. This gives one an impression 
of life, and no more. 

In such stories as these there is no universal truth to 
be taught, no moral to be impressed, no new theory of 
cause to be advanced, no strange corner of the world to 
be exploited. Evidently the author wishes merely to 
entertain with a good story; and to do this he simply 
embodies an impression. 

This group will include a great many stories not easily 
classified under the other heads. It will be a sort of 
receptacle for the multitude of miscellaneous stories that 
refuse to consort with those typical stories which have 
class characteristics. 

THE WRITER'S PRIMARY PURPOSE 

The theme the author had most prominently in mind 
cannot always be determined at the first glance, though 
it usually comes to the surface after careful study. For 
this reason two people reading the same story may not 
agree as to its theme. The Truth of the Oliver Cromwell 
will illustrate how the theme of a story might by differ- 
ent readers be put into different groups. One reader, 
seeing no development or disintegration of character, 
might put the theme into the third group, " The exhi- 
bition of some human passion (jealousy) in a striking, 
unusual, or tense situation." Another might put it in 
group six on account of the disintegration of character 
under the influence of jealousy. Still another might 

[35] 



THE SHORT STORY 



see no more in it than an impression of life, as in group 
seven. It might be regarded as nothing more than the 
portrayal of the characters of New England fishermen 
(group five). Or, lastly, some reader might place the 
theme in group four, " The reproduction of a phase of 
life in a particular locality and occupation " (New 
England fishing life). 

Doubtless all of these elements are in the story. In 
most stories, beside the main theme, several other inter- 
ests enter. To determine what the real theme is one has 
to put himself in the place of the author as he begins 
his story and ask himself, What is the single impression 
which the story is to make ? If the story is well written, 
the " single impression " which the author desired will 
become apparent. 

In The Truth of the Oliver Cromwell the author used 
New England fishing life (group four) as background. 
The theme is much more definite than a classification in 
group seven usually permits, and goes farther than group 
three ; that is, the story shows disintegration of character 
under the influence of jealousy, and that (group six) is 
the theme. Character portrayal (group five) is only a 
means of making the main impression, as are the in- 
cidents and setting also. 

THE GREATEST THEMES 

Great stories will be found in all the groups mentioned 
above, for greatness does not depend upon theme alone. 
The greatest themes, however, are those dealing with 
some universal phase of human life — with some matter 
supremely interesting to mankind in any country and 
in any period of time. 

[36] 



AN IMPRESSION FROM LIFE 



Love, Jealousy and Hate, Devotion to an Ideal, Cour- 
age, and Fear — all the elemental emotions — do not 
depend upon time or place; and so stories embodying 
such themes as these were popular a thousand years ago, 
if artistically presented; they are read with keen inter- 

j est today; and will thrill their multitudes of readers a 
thousand years hence. Our manners change ; our speech 

| changes; we build differently; we come to think differ- 
ently ; our ethical and religious principles undergo a slow 
transformation; but there are elemental depths below 

I these currents which, if they change at all, change like 
nature itself with the slow march of milleniums. The 
Odyssey has not endured the wear of ages simply because 
it is an absorbing adventure story illuminated by the 
fire of poetic imagination, but chiefly because its theme 
is one of the simple, elemental, great things at the bot- 
tom of human nature — the triumph of mind over cir- 
cumstances. Given a sufficient motive, the faithful 
Penelope in peril at home waiting the ten long years 
after the fall of Troy, Homer shows the adventurous 
and crafty Ulysses meeting and overcoming the obstacles 
set up by nature and man and the gods ; and humanity 
in sympathy with the sorely tried adventurer follows 
him with breathless interest and rejoices with a species 
of savage joy in his triumphs. Such themes are simple, 
but they lie close to the foundation of human experience. 
Universality of interest lifts the epics above the nation 
which originated them and makes them world stories. 

The writer of a Short Story who succeeds in embodying 
in his fiction one of these simple but fundamental inter- 
ests of the human race has taken the first step toward 
the production of a story really great. 

[37] 



THE SHORT STORY 



SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 

From the bibliography in this book or from the cur- 
rent magazines select a number of stories, and for each 
story make a statement of the theme and assign the 
theme to one of the seven groups. 

If a group of readers are working together it will be 
possible to go over a number large enough to determine 
what per cent of the themes falls in Group 1, Group 2, 
etc. 

Do you find any that cannot be classified in any one of 
the groups? 



[38] 



CHAPTER IV 

PLOT 

The plot of a story is the plan which the author makes for 
the purpose of developing or exhibiting his theme. 

HAYING once determined what phase of life he 
wishes to picture for his readers, the writer's next 
step in story-making is to construct a framework upon 
which he can exhibit his picture of life. Robert 
Herrick desires to show that a hurt of the spirit rankles 
in the flesh, and that the flesh can be made whole only 
by thinking more of others than of self, working for 
others, and at last laying bare the wound of the soul in 
open recognition and oral confession. His next problem 
is to lay a plan for the exhibition of his theme. Briefly 
the plan he constructs is this : A great surgeon suddenly 
fails because of the loss of nervous control. Trying all 
sorts of cures without any benefit, he comes finally to an 
old man who has discovered the secret of lifting the 
burden from the soul in order to restore the body. The 
surgeon at last tells his story to the man whom he has 
wronged long ago; he is absolved, and goes back to his 
work once more master of himself. 

But a plot cannot be made merely by adding incident 
to incident, like laying dominoes down end to end in a 
long row. It must be put together more like construct- 
ing a house of building blocks. Each incident grows 
out of the one preceding. First there is a foundation, 

[39] 



THE SHORT STORY 



then a superstructure ; then, having reached the desired 
height, the builder, with a more rapid movement, adds 
the culmination in roof and dome. 

The necessity of an organized structure in story-telling 
has been recognized by scholars for many hundreds of 
years. Aristotle set down the requirement of ' * a begin- 
ning, a middle, and an end," having in mind the same 
thing, perhaps, that a modern student has when he 
speaks of the Preliminary Situation, the Complication 
of the threads of the plot, and the Resolution of the 
complexity; i.e., the solution of the problem set. 

While this principle of plot construction has long been 
known, the practice of making a plot after this manner 
is recent. The older writers of tales tried to interest 
their readers merely by joining together a number of 
interesting incidents after the fashion of the row of 
dominoes. The Short Story writer of today starts with 
a theme, chooses characters, a setting, etc., and then gives 
the readers the Preliminary Situation — the relation of 
the characters to each other and their surroundings. 
This accomplished, he begins the climb up his plot-ladder 
toward the culmination of the story. In this climb the 
incidents of the story form the steps. The upward 
movement is not, then, along a smooth incline, but step 
by step, incident by incident, each depending upon the 
one preceding and making natural the one to come, until 
the author leads the reader to a height from whence he 
can see the way to a solution of the complexity created 
during the time of the movement upward. The solution 
of the complexity we call the Culmination. If we think 
of the making of a story in terms of another figure of 
speech, we might call this process the weaving together of 

[40] 



PLOT 

! 

J the threads of the plot. Just before the culmination, the 

j threads seem to be in an inextricable tangle — a knot, 
where all the threads of causation cross each other. Then 

j comes the culmination. The knot is untied — or maybe 
cut — and the story rounds itself out into a natural 

| conclusion. 

The usual form for plot structure is this : First quar- 
ter, Preliminary Situation; second and third quarters, 

! Complication, and Culmination; and the fourth quarter, 

' Conclusion. 

A TYPICAL PLOT DIAGRAM 

The following diagram will help to make clear the 
movement of a plot developed in this order and with 
these proportions: 




(P. S.) — Preliminary Situation. 

1. Time and Place. 

2. Characters and their interrelations. 

3. Preceding significant incidents. 

(I. I.) — Initial Incident. Ladder. — LI. First inci- 
[41] 



THE SHORT STORY 



dent. L2. Second incident. L3. Third incident. L4. 
Fourth incident. L5. Fifth incident. L6. Sixth incident. 

(Cul.) — Culmination. 

Falling Action. — Fl. First incident, F2. Second in- 
cident. F3. Third incident. 
(Con.) — Conclusion. 

It is assumed that this diagram represents a story- 
beginning in the logical way with the preliminary Situa- 
tion. This part moves in a straight line with no rise 
in the action until the Initial Incident — the happening 
which sets the story into motion — is reached. In the 
preliminary situation we ordinarily come into possession 
of the facts as they stand when the story opens. We 
assume that these facts may be arranged in three groups : 

(1) Time and Place. 

(2) The characters and their relations to each other. 

(3) Preceeding incidents which affect the story. 

Then some event happens which starts the complica- 
tion of the plot. This we call the Initial Incident. 
From the Initial Incident the story mounts step by step, 
some of more importance than others in developing the 
theme, until it reaches a point where the working out 
of the meaning (the theme) of the story is complete. 
This portion of the story structure we call the Ladder — 
in this case made up of six steps, LI, L2, etc., of which 
steps L4 and L6 are much more important in developing 
the theme than LI, L3, and L5. 

The section of the plot structure from the culmination 
to the conclusion is called the Falling Action. Again 
this may be in distinct steps, each step representing an 

[42] 



PLOT 

incident in the story. In our imagined plot we have 
three steps in the Falling Action. 

OTHER PLOT DIAGRAMS 

Not all stories are planned in this perfectly logical 
order, but the diagram can be varied so as to exhibit 
almost any plot structure. Frequently the writer will 
begin with the Initial Incident and then go back and 
insert the Preliminary Situation. This gives the story 
a lively and interesting beginning, which the more 
leisurely story, opening with the Preliminary Situation, 
may not have; but it too has a fault. It must pause 
after its lively opening and ask the reader to wait for 
the necessary explanation of the conditions which pre- 
cede the Initial Incident — unless the author can deftly 
suggest the preliminary situation as the plot mounts step 
by step. Such deft suggestion is very high art and, con- 
sequently, somewhat rare. The following diagram illus- 
trates a plot beginning with the Initial Incident and 
suggesting the Preliminary Situation while developing 
the story steps: 

due. 




RS. 



The length of the horizontal line represents the time 
between incidents required for explanation. In such a 
story the mounting of the staircase will probably be 

[43] 



THE SHORT STORY 



slower than in the other type — the horizontal lines 
longer than the perpendicular. It will be noted that 
the facts in the preliminary situation are present, and 
that their logical place is before the initial incident, 
even though the story actually begins with the initial 
incident. In such a diagram as this one, representing 
the logical arrangement of the plot steps, these incidents 
are placed in their natural position rather than in their 
actual places in the story. 

In writing out the explanation of such a diagram one 
should make note of the inferred Preliminary Situation, 
just as if it had been written before the Happening, 
somewhat as follows : 

Preliminary Situation: 

1. Time and Place. 

2. Characters and their interrelations. . 

3. Preceding significant incidents, i. e., incidents 
which affect the movement of this plot, but which have 
taken place before the opening of the story. 

Initial Incident. Ladder : Ll, L2, L3. 
Culmination. Falling Action. Fl,F2. 
Conclusion. 

Still another device of the story writer is to make the 
Culmination and Conclusion coincident, and have no Fall- 
ing Action. Thinking of plot in terms of threads woven 
together, we have in such an arrangement the cutting of 
the culminating knot instead of the process of untying 
or disentangling. The device of ending a story the 
moment the theme is worked out, has been very effect- 
ively used by many master story writers. This kind 

[44] 



PLOT 

of combined culmination and conclusion is employed by 
Stevenson in Markheim. 
The diagram will be like this: 

e~4. 



ill 

y ' ■ i »' i * 1 




In this story Stevenson sets up the problem, What shall 
a man do when evil has laid such a hold upon him that 
he cannot turn from it and do good, no matter how 
strong his desire to do so? By means of a carefully 
planned series of incidents he shows how Markheim is 
convinced that his course is necessarily downward. Then 
instead of carefully working from this culmination, or 
crisis, in the man's career through a series of steps in a 
falling action, the story ends abruptly with Markheim 's 
decision to cease acting altogether — to give up his life 
and so conquer evil in the one possible way left for 
him. 

THE PLOT IN A DETECTIVE STORY 

The detective story furnishes another and a strange 
plot scheme. The story opens with a brief Preliminary 
Situation; then the knot is tied by someone setting a 

[45] 



THE SHORT STORY 



problem for the detective to solve. The remainder of the 
story is the solution of the problem set in the beginning 
— the untangling of the knotted threads. 

In terms of the diagram used thus far in this book 
there is a Preliminary Situation, a Happening (the set- 
ting of the problem) ; then the story is Falling Action 
down to the Conclusion. This action consists of the 
steps in the solution of the mystery. There is no Cul- 
mination, in the sense in which the term has already been 
employed. 

SUMMABY 

Plot in fiction has been somewhat fantastically called 
The Road of a Soul, and in a sense this is a true state- 
ment of what plot is. But in a book of this kind it 
seems better to use the more mechanical definition, quite 
prosaic to be sure, which was placed at the head of this 
chapter: Plot is the plan, the framework, which the 
author uses for developing and exhibiting his theme. 

AN EXAMPLE OP THE STUDY OF PLOT 

THE PIECE OF STRING* 
By Guy de Maupassant 

Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893) was a 
French writer of Short Stories, plays, and novels. He was 
born in the country, educated in the best schools, and grad- 
uated from the College of Rouen. His literary training was 
the care of his godfather, Gustave Flaubert, the celebrated 
French novelist. Flaubert was noted for the pains he took 
to perfect the form of what he wrote. Through a long 
apprenticeship, publishing nothing till his thirtieth year, 

* Reprinted from Little French Masterpieces, with the per- 
mission of G. P. Putnam's Sons. 

[46] 



PLOT 

Maupassant learned the lesson so well that he perhaps sur- 
passed his master. Practically all the writers and critics 
regard him as the great master of form in story structure. 
His themes are usually of absorbing interest, but the level of 
life he pictures is often low and repellant to many. He is, 
however, a convincing realist, notwithstanding his cynical 
view of life and the unpleasant situations he presents. His 
works most read in English are: The novel, Pierre et Jean 
(1888), and the stories, Tallow Ball (1880), The Horla (1887), 
The Conscript, The Coward, The Necklace, and The Piece of 
String. The last two years of his life were crowded by de- 
pression, disease, and partial insanity. He died in a private 
asylum in Paris in his forty-third year.. 

[P. S.] On all the roads about Goderville the peasants 
and their wives were coming towards the town, for it 
was market-day. The men walked at an easy gait, the 
whole body thrown forward with every movement of 
their long, crooked legs, misshapen by hard work, by 
the bearing down on the plough which at the same time 
causes the left shoulder to rise and the figure to slant; 
by the mowing of the grain, which makes one hold his 
knees apart in order to obtain a firm footing ; by all the 
slow and laborious tasks of the fields. Their starched 
blue blouses, glossy as if varnished, adorned at the neck 
and wrists with a bit of white stitchwork, puffed out 
about their bony chests like balloons on the point of 
taking flight, from which protruded a head, two arms, 
and two feet. 

Some of them led a cow or a calf at the end of a rope. 
And their wives, walking behind the beast, lashed it 
with a branch still covered with leaves, to hasten its pace. 
They carried on their arms great baskets, from which 
heads of chickens or of ducks "were thrust forth. And 

[47] 



THE SHORT STORY 



they walked with, a shorter and quicker step than their 
men, their stiff, lean figures wrapped in scanty shawls 
pinned over their flat breasts, their heads enveloped in 
a white linen cloth close to the hair, with a cap over all. 

Then a market cart passed, drawn by a jerky-paced 
nag, with two men seated side by side shaking like jelly, 
and a woman behind, who clung to the side of the vehicle 
to lessen the rough jolting. 

On the square at Goderville there was a crowd, a 
medley of men and beasts. The horns of the cattle, the 
high hats, with a long, hairy nap, of the wealthy peasants, 
and the head-dresses of the peasant women, appeared 
on the surface of the throng. And the sharp, shrill, 
high-pitched voices formed an incessant, uncivilized 
uproar, over which soared at times a roar of laughter 
from the powerful chest of a sturdy jokel, or the 
prolonged bellow of a cow fastened to the wall of a 
house. 

There was an all-pervading smell of the stable, of 
milk, of the dunghill, of hay, and of perspiration — 
that acrid, disgusting odor of man and beast peculiar to 
country people. 

[I. I.] Master Hauchecorne, of Breaute, had just 
arrived at Goderville, and was walking towards the 
square, when he saw a bit of string on the ground. 
Master Hauchecorne, economical like every true Norman, 
thought that it was well to pick up everything that might 
be of use ; and he stooped painfully, for he suffered with 
rheumatism. He took the piece of slender cord from 
the ground, and was about to roll it up carefully, when 
he saw Master Malandain, the harness-maker, standing 
in his doorway and looking at him. They had formerly 

[48] 



I PLOT 

j had trouble on the subject of a halter, and had remained 
' at odds, being both inclined to bear malice. Master 
| Hauchecorne felt a sort of shame at being seen thus by 
j his enemy, fumbling in the mud for a bit of string. He 
1 hurriedly concealed his treasure in his blouse, then in 
i his breeches' pocket; then he pretended to look on the 
! ground for something else, which he did not find ; and 
! finally he went on towards the market, his head thrust 
! forward, bent double by his pains. 

He lost himself at once in the slow-moving, shouting 
I crowd, kept in a state of excitement by the interminable 
, bargaining. The peasants felt of the cows, went away, 
returned, sorely perplexed, always afraid of being 
cheated, never daring to make up their minds, watching 
the vendor 's eye, striving incessantly to detect the tricks 
of the man and the defect in the beast. 

The women, having placed their great baskets at their 
feet, took out their fowls, which lay on the ground, their 
legs tied together, with frightened eyes and scarlet 
combs. 

They listened to offers, adhered to their prices, short 
of speech and impassive of face ; or else, suddenly decid- 
ing to accept the lower price offered, they would call 
out to the customer as he walked slowly away : 
" All right, Mast' Anthime. You can have it." 
Then, little by little, the square became empty, and 
when the Angelus struck midday those who lived too 
far away to go home betook themselves to the various 
inns. 

[L 1.] At Jourdain's the common room was full of 
customers, as the great yard was full of vehicles of every 
sort — carts, cabriolets, tilburys, unnamable carriages, 

[49] 



/ 

THE SHORT STORY 



shapeless, patched, with their shafts reaching heaven- 
ward like arms, or with their noses in the ground and 
their tails in the air. 

The vast fireplace, full of clear flame, cast an intense 
heat against the backs of the row on the right of the 
table. Three spits were revolving, laden with chickens, 
pigeons, and legs of mutton; and a delectable odor of 
roast meat, and of gravy dripping from the browned 
skin, came forth from the hearth, stirred the guests to 
merriment, and made their mouths water. 

All the aristocracy of the plough ate there, at Mast' 
Jourdain 's, the inn-keeper and horse-trader — a shrewd 
rascal who had money. 

The dishes passed and were soon emptied, like the 
jugs of yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, his 
sales, and his purchases. They inquired about the crops. 
The weather was igood for green stuffs, but a little wet 
for wheat. 

Suddenly a drum rolled in the yard, in front of the 
house. In an instant everybody was on his feet, save a 
few indifferent ones; and they all ran to the door and 
windows, with their mouths still full and napkins in 
hand. 

Having finished his long tattoo, the public crier shout- 
ed in a jerky voice, making his pauses in the wrong 
places : 

" The people of Goderville, and all those present at 
the market are informed that between — nine and ten 
o'clock this morning on the Beuzeville — road, a black 
leather wallet was lost, containing five hundred — francs, 
and business papers. The finder is requested to carry 
it to — the mayor 's office at once, or to Master Fortune 

[50] 



PLOT 

Houlbreque of Manneville. A reward of twenty francs 
will be paid." 

[L 2.] Then he went away. They heard once more 
in the distance the muffled roll of the drum and the 
indistinct voice of the crier. 

Then they began to talk about the incident, reckoning 
Master Houlbreque 's chance of finding or not finding 
his wallet. 

And the meal went on. 

They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of 
gendarmes appeared in the doorway. 

He inquired : 

" Is Master Hauchecorne of Breaute here? " 

Master Hauchecorne, who was seated at the farther 
end of the table, answered : 

" Here I am." 

And the corporal added : 

" Master Hauchecorne, will you be kind enough to 
go to the mayor's office with me? Monsieur the mayor 
would like to speak to you. ' ' 

The peasant, surprised and disturbed, drank his petit 
verre at one swallow, rose, and even more bent than in 
the morning, for the first steps after each rest were 
particularly painful, he started off, repeating: 

1 ' Here I am, here I am. ' ' 

And he followed the brigadier. 

[L 3.] The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an 
arm-chair. He was the local notary, a stout, solemn- 
faced man, given to pompous speeches. 

" Master Hauchecorne," he said, " you were seen 
this morning, on the Beuzeville road, to pick up the 
wallet lost by Master Houlbreque of Manneville. ' ' 

[51] 



THE SHORT STORY 



The rustic, dumfounded, stared at the mayor, already 
alarmed by this suspicion which had fallen upon him, 
although he failed to understand it. 

" I, I — I picked up that wallet? " 

" Yes, you." 

" On my word of honor, I didn't even so much as 
see it. ' ' 

" You were seen." 

1 ' They saw me, me ? Who was it saw me?" 

" Monsieur Malandain, the harness-maker." 

Thereupon the old man remembered and understood; 
and flushing with anger, he cried : 

" Ah! he saw me, did he, that sneak? He saw me 
pick up this string, look, m'sieu' mayor." 

And, fumbling in the depths of his pocket, he pro- 
duced the little piece of cord. 

But the mayor was incredulous and shook his head. 

" You won't make me believe, Master Hauchecorne, 
that Monsieur Malandain, who is a man deserving of 
credit, mistook this string for a wallet. ' ' 

The peasant, in a rage, raised his hand, spit to one 
side to pledge his honor, and said : 

' ' It 's God 's own truth, the sacred truth, all the same, 
m'sieu' mayor. I say it again, by my soul and my 
salvation." 

" After picking it up," rejoined the mayor, " you 
hunted a long while in the mud, to see if some piece of 
money hadn't fallen out." 

The good man was suffocated with wrath and fear. 

" If any one can tell — if any one can tell lies like 
that, to ruin an honest man ! If any one can say — " 

To no purpose did he protest ; he was not believed. 
[52] 



PLOT 

He was confronted with Monsieur Malandain, who 
repeated and maintained his declaration. They insulted 
each other for a whole hour. At his own request, Master 
Hauchecorne was searched. They found nothing on him. 
At last the mayor, being sorely perplexed, discharged 
him, but warned him that he proposed to inform the 
prosecuting attorney's office and to ask for orders. 

[L 4.] The news had spread. On leaving the mayor's 
office, the old man was surrounded and questioned with 
serious or bantering curiosity, in which, however, there 
was no trace of indignation. And he began to tell the 
story of the string. They did not believe him. They 
laughed. 

He went his way, stopping his acquaintances, repeating 
again and again his story and his protestations, showing 
his pockets turned inside out, to prove that he had 
nothing. 

They said to him : 

1 ' You old rogue ! ' ' 

And he lost his temper, lashing himself into a rage, 
feverish with excitement, desperate because he was not 
believed, at a loss what to do, and still telling his story. 

Night came. He must needs go home. He started 
with three neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place 
where he had picked up the bit of string: and all the 
way he talked of his misadventure. 

During the evening he made the circuit of the village 
of Breaute, in order to tell everybody about it. He 
found none but incredulous listeners. 

He was ill over it all night. 

[L 5.] The next afternoon, about one o'clock, Marius 
Paumelle, a farmhand employed by Master Breton, a 

[53] 



THE SHORT STORY 



farmer of Ymauville, restored the wallet and its con- 
tents to Master Houlbreque of Manneville. 

The man claimed that he had found it on the road; 
but, being unable to read, he had carried it home and 
given it to his employer. 

The news soon became known in the neighborhood; 
Master Hauchecorne was informed of it. He started 
out again at once, and began to tell his story, now made 
complete by the denouement. He was triumphant. 

' ' What made me feel bad, ' ' he said, ' ' wasn 't so much 
the thing itself, you understand, but the lying. There 's 
nothing hurts you so much as being blamed for lying. ' ' 

All day long he talked of his adventure; he told it 
on the roads to people who passed; at the wine-shop 
to people who were drinking; and after church on the 
following Sunday. He even stopped strangers to tell 
them about it. His mind was at rest now, and yet some- 
thing embarrassed him, although he could not say just 
what it was. People seemed to laugh while they listened 
to him. They did not seem convinced. He felt as if 
remarks were made behind his back. 

[Cut.] On Tuesday of the next week, he went to 
market at Goderville, impelled solely by the longing to 
tell his story. 

Malandain, standing in his doorway, began to laugh 
when he saw him coming. Why ? 

He accosted a farmer from Criquetot, who did not let 
him finish, but poked him in the pit of his stomach, and 
shouted in his face : 

" Go on, you old fox! " Then he turned on his heel. 

Master Hauchecorne was speechless, and more and 
more disturbed. Why did he call him ' ' old fox ? ' ' 

[54] 



PLOT 

When he was seated at the table, in Jourdain's inn, 
he set about explaining the affair once more. 

A horse-trader from Montivilliers called out to him: 

" Nonsense, nonsense, you old dodger! I know all 
about your string ! ' ' 

1 ' But they 've found the wallet ! ' ' faltered Hauche- 
corne. 

1 ' None of that, old boy ; there 's one who finds it, and 
there's one who carries it back. I don't know just how 
you did it, but I understand you. ' ' 

The peasant was fairly stunned. He understood at 
last. He was accused of having sent the wallet back by 
a confederate, an accomplice. 

He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh. 

He could not finish his dinner, but left the inn amid a 
chorus of jeers. 

He returned home, shamefaced and indignant, suf- 
focated by wrath, by confusion, and all the more cast 
down because, with his Norman cunning, he was quite 
capable of doing the thing with which he was charged, 
and even of boasting of it as a shrewd trick. He had 
a confused idea that his innocence was impossible to 
establish, his craftiness being so well known. And he 
was cut to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion. 

[F 1.] Thereupon he began once more to tell of the 
adventure, making the story longer each day, adding 
each time new arguments, more forcible protestations, 
more solemn oaths, which he devised and prepared in his 
hours of solitude, his mind being wholly engrossed by 
the story of the string. The more complicated his 
defence and the more subtle his reasoning, the less he 
was believed. 

[55] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" Those are liar's reasons," people said behind his 
back. 

He realized it; he gnawed his nails, and exhausted 
himself in vain efforts. 

He grew perceptibly thinner. 

Now the jokers asked him to tell the story of The 
Piece of String for their amusement, as a soldier who 
has seen service is asked to tell about his battles. His 
mind, attacked at its source, grew feebler. 

Late in December he took to his bed. 

In the first days of January he died, and in the 
delirium of the death-agony, he protested his innocence, 
repeating : 

' ' A little piece of string — a little piece of string — 
see, here it is, m 'sieu ' mayor. ' ' 

THE PLOT DIAGRAM FOR 

I. Preliminary Situation. 

1. Time — The present. 

2. Place — Goderville, a French village, on mar- 

ket day. 

3. Tone — Serious. 

II. Initial Incident — Master Hauchecorne 's finding 
the piece of string. 
III. The Ladder of Rising Action. 

Ll. The crier's announcement of the lost purse. 
L2. The arrest of Hauchecorne. L3. The examination 
before the mayor. L4. Those attending the market 
believe him to be guilty. L5. The purse found and 
returned, but still the neighbors doubt his innocence, and 
he worries. 

[56] 



PLOT 

IV. Culmination. Hauchecorne 's failure to establish a 
belief in his innocence on the next market day. 
He is stunned by the shock. 




#\ 



t '■ , i *• r 

V. Falling Action. 

Fl. Gradual disintegration under the constant 
accusation of his neighbors. 
VI. Conclusion. The death of Master Hauchecorne. 

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 

The reader should set himself the task of making a 
plot analysis, representing the action by a diagram and 
accompanying explanatory notes, for two or three stories 
recently read. In doing this for the first time a story 
in which the steps are represented by external incidents, 
rather than by internal mental or spiritual growth or 
disintegration, should be chosen. For this reason the 
beginner should try Maupassant's The Necklace, rather 
than such stories as his The Coward, or Stevenson's 
Markheim. Objective stories rather than subjective 
should be selected for analysis so long as the student is 
new to the study. 

[57] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Make a careful observation of the kinds of incidents 
which the writers choose as suitable for the purposes of 
fiction. You will probably notice that the great writers 
use simple incidents, discarding such matter as would 
make a sensational news story for the daily papers. The 
unpracticed writer is likely to select something unusual 
or startling for his plot, believing that a set of incidents 
would naturally make a good story because they had 
actually happened somewhere. He is prone to believe, 
too, that something that happened a long time ago or 
in some far away place is much more interesting than 
the simple occurrences of his own town or county. A 
skillful writer recognizes that many incidents which 
make interesting reading in the columns of a newspaper 
have no " fictional value." This may be due to the 
fact that the set of incidents do not illustrate any phase 
of life, cannot carry a theme, or that the facts are so 
much truer than fiction that they do not bear the appear- 
ance of truth, verisimilitude. 

In your reading observe the plots carefully to see 
whether the writer gets his materials from a source near 
at hand, and whether he selects the simple incidents 
rather than the remote and complex. 



[58] 



CHAPTER V 
THE CHARACTERS 

SINCE the Short Story has for its main purpose the 
exhibition of some phase of life, usually human 
life, it follows that characters must be selected and used 
in some plot in order to embody the theme. An essayist 
might in an abstract philosophical essay show that a 
certain thing is true about humanity, and do it without 
using characters, but the materials of the story-teller are 
people — concrete things, and not abstract observations. 
The story writer chooses a theme, makes a plan, and then 
selects his people. He may not proceed in this order 
but these three things he has to do. 

HOW MANY CHARACTERS 

The story is short in the actual number of words. 
The theme may be a great one — some profound life 
truth — but the author must embody even such a theme 
in three or four thousand words. The lower limit is 
about one thousand, and the upper, seven. Of course 
there are a few stories that fall below a thousand words 
and some which go. beyond seven thousand — even as 
high as ten thousand — but these are unusual. The 
writer of a Short Story wishes, of course, to make his 
theme stand out as clearly as possible and to make the 
truth of it convincing; yet he must do this in about 
three or four thousand words. To do so he must draw 

[59] 



THE SHORT STORY 



upon every resource at his command to produce intensity, 
and at the same time practice a rigid economy in the 
use of means. These necessities seem to oppose each 
other and to place the author in a dilemma, but in reality 
they work together. The author who succeeds in placing 
one or two characters in a single tense situation so as 
to produce conviction of the truth of his theme really 
gains in intensity of impression over the novelist who 
may use a wider range of characters and plot incidents. 
In practice the story writers have found themselves 
most successful when they have employed one or two or 
three characters. The Prodigal Son has three characters, 
all necessary; Poe's Ligeia has only two real people; 
Stevenson's Markheim has but two, only one of these 
being significant. 

WHAT KIND OF PEOPLE 

In the first place, the characters must be real people — 
not abstract qualities in human form and name, nor 
mere types. They must be and act like the people one 
meets in the actual world. Most people are so constituted 
that in a given situation they will act just as one might 
expect them to act. Their actions should be consistent 
with their predominant traits of character. Still, human 
beings have personal characteristics and idiosyncrasies 
which must be taken into the account. They do not 
always act alike in like situations. The author who 
creates a character whose conduct can be accurately 
predicted by the reader from the beginning has not 
drawn a man or woman, but a type. To be real, char- 
acters must be both typical and individual — and indi- 
vidual first. 

[60] 



THE CHARACTERS 



THE CHARACTERS MUST BE WORTH KNOWING 

Either the character must be unusual, such a person 
as we do not commonly have the opportunity of meeting ; 
or if he is such a one as we meet every day, we must 
in print meet him in some striking situation not frequent 
in every-day experience. If he is an ordinary person, 
and the plot-incidents ordinary too, the story writer has 
just one possible excuse left for bringing his character 
into print. He can reveal the deep impressions which 
such experiences make on such people — impressions 
intellectual or emotional — which lie too deep to appear 
to a casual observer at a chance meeting. 

UNUSUAL PEOPLE 

For most of us the points of contact with life are 
limited in number, and we are not conceited enough to 
regard " The rustic cackle of our bourg, the murmur of 
the mighty world." We welcome the readings of life 
which the skilled observer and interpreter can bring to 
us from his part of the world of experience. There are 
portions of the world that we cannot visit and could 
not understand if we were there. There are levels of 
society too high and levels too low for some of us. There 
are some people whom we cannot meet face to face and 
know intimately, and others whom we would not meet if 
we could; but in our own rooms, being properly intro- 
duced by the story teller, we may consort with principal- 
ities and powers and not feel out of place, or with knights 
and ladies of low degree, or no degree, and profit by 
the meeting. The writers of stories make such meetings 
possible for us. 

[61] 



THE SHORT STORY 



PEOPLE IN UNUSUAL SITUATIONS 

As with the characters, so it is with situations. We 
are all earth-bound. We cannot go everywhere ; we 
cannot see everything that we should be interested in, if 
we could meet those situations as first-hand experiences. 
But as readers we can make servants of authors and 
ask them to see for us and show us their characters as 
they pass through experiences that we cannot have. 
Having a thousand of these trained observers at our com- 
mand the world over, we can draw upon their knowledge 
of things and people and emotions beyond our range of 
experience. If they deal with the commonest situations 
of life, they have yet a means of instructing us, for they 
can give us interpretations of life that lie beneath the 
surface of things observed. They can present a conden- 
sation and simplification of actual life that is more 
illuminating than the casual experiences of life can pos- 
sibly be to us. 

UNUSUAL IMPRESSIONS OF CHARACTERS AND LIFE 

Then, too, we must remember that every effect of 
experience with life does not show upon the countenance 
of the chance-met person. If you go out upon the street, 
you may meet a man or woman who has just passed 
through some tragic hour of intellectual or emotional 
experience, and yet you may not be aware of it from any 
look or action. They may show no outward sign of the 
stirred depths — at least no sign that you or I can read. 
Here the trained interpreter steps in and sees for us 
and makes us see. The writer of fiction also can, from 
his knowledge of life, set up a problem in imagination 
and ask himself what would happen if certain characters 

[62] 



THE CHARACTERS 



with certain characteristics should go through certain 
physical, mental, or emotional experiences ; and to answer 
his question he may construct an imagined plot to show 
the result, thus making a piece of fiction, a story. 

CONDENSATIONS OF EXPERIENCE 

In actual life there are no sharp beginnings and no 
sudden endings such as we see in fiction. Seldom does 
a series of events happen in a continuous sequence with- 
out irrelevant digressions, so as to make a unified plot 
with the emphases in the right places. A man 's acts and 
the things that happen to him depend, more or less, on 
what he has been already, and the kind of experiences he 
has passed through. Sharp and sudden beginnings do 
not occur in life as they must appear to occur in fiction. 
Significant experiences in life do not end suddenly, but 
continue to exert an influence after a given series has 
apparently terminated. While events are occurring 
which might be wrought into the plot of a story, there are 
many other experiences of the character which have 
nothing to do with those of the story plot. The writer 
of a Short Story disregards all the experiences except 
those which pertain to the plot. He rearranges even 
those that he retains so as to present them in the order 
which will most emphatically impress his theme. He 
takes notice of only those characters who enact the 
scenes in his plot. This service to the reader may be 
fitly termed Simplification of life, Elimination of the 
irrelevant incidents and characters, and Condensation 
of diffused experience. It is a simple thing to say that 
this is what the author does for us, but this is the great 
task in plot making. 

[63] 



THE SHORT STORY 



CHARACTER PORTRAYAL AND DEVELOPMENT 

The brevity of the Short Story prevents much develop- 
ment of character. In people who are possessed of char- 
acters worthy of study, such changes as make or mar a 
character do not ordinarily occur within the space of 
time occupied by a Short Story. Exaltation or disin- 
tegration of character is a slow process, but it may 
have been going on unseen for a long time like the prep- 
aration of a calendar clock to change the figures on the 
dial. The story writer may begin his narrative just 
before the change occurs, and in his fiction hurry the 
character through the series of experiences up to the 
tense moment when the change becomes apparent, and in 
this way show actual development of character by seizing 
upon what the evolutionists in biology call the " trans- 
mutation period.' ' While this process is possible, it is 
not the most common manner of treating character in 
the Short Story. Development of character is managed 
with greater skill in the novel, for in a book the author 
has leisure and room to develop his characters naturally, 
using no hot-house forcing process. The portrayal of 
character is, more properly, the business of the story 
writer. This consists of showing what the character is in 
a given situation. It is, in fact, the process of painting 
a portrait that reveals the character as he really is at 
the time of the culmination of the story, and not an 
attempt to use the process of the moving picture machine 
and show the evolution of character. 

THE TWO METHODS OF DELINEATING CHARACTER 

There are two methods of delineating character, com- 
monly designated by the terms direct and indirect. The 

[64] 



THE CHARACTERS 



direct method calls for simple description; while the 
indirect allows the character to reveal himself in what 
he says and does. Of course the direct method is the 
easier of the two, but by no means the more effective, 
unless used by a master artist. When Arthur Mor- 
rison says in the second paragraph of his story, On the 
Stairs, " Three flights up, a gaunt woman with bare 
forearms stayed on her way to listen at a door," he is 
directly describing Mrs. Manders. But when he lets us 
become acquainted with her by means of what she says 
in such a speech as this, " Ah, well, we all of us comes 
to it some day, sooner or later, and it's often a 'appy 
release," he is effectively using the indirect method of 
character revelation. By the direct method we have 
learned something of her appearance, and now by the 
indirect we have come to know a little about her philoso- 
phy of life. Another resource of the indirect method is 
the opportunity which it possesses of interpreting the 
speeches of the characters by means of the remarks which 
the author combines with the speeches. Notice the effect 
of the following speech and remark from Mr. Morrison's 
story. 1 1 When I lost my pore 'usband, ' ' said the gaunt 
woman, with a certain brightening, " I give 'im a 'an'- 
some funeral." The author here tells us how Mrs. 
Manders looked when she made that speech, and thus 
gives us a better opportunity of knowing her than the 
mere speech in black and white could have given — the 
same, in fact, that we might have had if we could have 
seen her as she said the words. 

It would be a mistake to assume that a writer chooses 
one of these methods to the exclusion of the other. One 
may feel a preference for one method or the other, but 

[65] 



THE SHORT STORY 



in practice, for the sake of variety, both would be freely 
intermingled. The writer who feels that he is particu- 
larly successful in hitting off a character in a few well 
chosen descriptive sentences would naturally prefer to 
use the direct method. The indirect would appeal to 
one who is especially skillful in writing conversation. 
But neither could afford to use his own way exclusively. 
\ The older method of writing a long and detailed 

I description of a character before presenting the char- 
acter in speech and action is seldom seen in modern 
stories. The practice now is to present the character 
in a descriptive sentence or two, and then show him in 
some characteristic action and speeches; and after a 
time, again to drop in a line or two of direct delineation, 
continuing this process until the reader comes to feel 
that he knows the character in the same way that he 
comes to know people in real life. 

There is an interesting variation of the indirect method 
that should be touched upon before the subject is dis- 
missed. Sometimes an author lets a character make his 
impression upon you by showing you how he has im- 
pressed other characters in the story. There are two 
ways of doing this. The first of these is to allow the 
characters to talk about some one who is absent, and so 
introduce the absent one to the reader. The other device 
is to show the reader the effect the character has upon 
others. Both of these are shown in the following excerpts 
from Richard Harding Davis' A Derelict. A group 
of newspaper reporters are talking about Charming, the 
derelict. 

One of the World men looked up and laughed. 

" I wonder if he'll run across Channing out there," 

[66] 



THE CHARACTERS 



he said. The men at the table smiled, a kindly, indulgent 
smile. The name seemed to act upon their indignation 
as a shower upon the close air of a summer day. 

" That's so," said Norris. " He wrote me last month 
from Port-au-Prince that he was moving on to Jamaica. 
He said that he was at that moment introducing the 
president to a new cocktail, and as he had no money to 
pay his passage to Kingston, he was trying to persuade 
him to send him on there as his Haitian Consul. He 
said in case he couldn't get appointed Consul he had 
an offer to go as cook on an oil tramp." 

The men around the table laughed. It was the pleased, 
proud laugh that flutters the family dinner-table when 
the infant son and heir says something precocious and 
impudent. 

1 ' I never saw a man who wouldn 't help Charlie along 
or lend him a dollar." He glanced at the faces about 
him and then winked at the Boston man. ' ' They all of 
them look guilty, don't they? " he said. 

ft Charlie Channing," murmured the baseball re- 
porter, gently, as though he were pronouncing the name 
of a girl. He raised his glass. ' ' Here 's to Charlie Chan- 
ning," he repeated. Norris set down his empty glass 
and showed it to the Boston man. 

' ' That 's his only enemy, ' ' he said. ' ' Write ! Heavens, 
how that man can write ! " 

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 

Examine the characters in the stories you read to 
determine : 

1. How many significant characters. 

2. Whether they are real people, or types of humanity 
or personified qualities or mere figures. 

3. Whether they are worth knowing and why. 

4. Whether they are unusual in any way. In what 
way? 

[67] 



THE SHORT STORY 



5. Whether they are exhibited in situations in which 
the reader would not be likely to have a chance to asso- 
ciate with them. Explain. 

6. "Whether the author has revealed in his characters 
qualities, experiences, or emotions which the chance 
observer would have no opportunity of knowing about. 
"What these are. 

7. Whether the author has condensed the experiences 
of a long time into a brief narration. If so, show how 
this is true. 

8. Whether there is mere character portrayal, or 
development or disintegration of character as well. 



[68] 



CHAPTER VI 

THE REMAINING MEANS USED IN DEVELOPING 
A THEME: SETTING — EMOTION — TONE- 
STYLE— APPEARANCE OF TRUTH 

PLOT and character, the two most important of the 
author 's means for the exhibition of his theme, have 
each required a short chapter for their treatment. The 
remaining five in a first study of fiction, such as this is, 
may be included in a single chapter. 

SETTING 

In a story like The Prodigal Son there is no attempt to 
establish time and place, but Arthur Morrison's On 
the Stairs is a * ' tale of a mean street ' ' in modern Lon- 
don. Its setting is as definite as the setting of a play 
in which painted scenery, costumes, supernumeraries, 
and manners, all help the words to say ' ' these incidents 
took place in a certain place at a definite time." The 
manner of The Prodigal Son implies an oriental setting 
— ' ' somewhere east of Suez, ' ' — but as for definite set- 
ting of time and place, there is none. Only recently, in 
fact, have writers of stories come to recognize the value 
of background. Millet in painting his Angelus might 
have shown upon a bare white canvas a man and woman 
standing in prayer, and might even thus have given us a 
picture with a large meaning; but what a richness of 
associated ideas comes to it when we see back of the 
two figures the stretch of brown field, the distant shadowy 

[69] 



THE SHORT STORY 



trees, the spire of the church, and the evening glow in 
the sky ! Background for a story serves the same purpose 
as background in a picture, or the setting of a drama — 
painted scenery, costumes, properties, comment of sec- 
ondary characters, movement of supernumeraries, etc. 
It suggests, maybe actually designates, time, place, tone, 
and atmosphere. 

emotion 

In the chapter on story themes the matter of the kinds 
of emotions, such as love, fear, jealousy, hope, joy, etc. 
was given some consideration. A word needs to be added 
here about the use of emotion in the mechanical arrange- 
ment of the story. The story should be so arranged as 
to show an increase in the intensity of the emotion up to 
the point of the culmination of the plot. The highest 
point of emotional intensity should coincide with the 
top-most step of the plot-ladder — the point where the 
plot-problem is solved, the major knot untied or cut (to 
employ the terms of another writer). If these points do 
not coincide, if the emotion reaches its height before the 
plot culmination is reached, or afterward, the effect pro- 
duced is disconcerting. Interest falls off if the emotional 
height is reached too early ; and you feel the incongruity 
of an emotional culmination coming after the turn in the 
plot and during the part of the action that falls away 
toward the well-rounded conclusion. 

TONE 

We all recognize in the best stories a certain unity 
of tone. The story may be tragic, humorous, keenly 
witty, satirical, ironical, sombre, joyous, foreboding, or 
serious; and in keeping with the key-note the author 

[70] 



MEANS USED IN DEVELOPING A THEME 

succeeds usually in making the setting or background of 
his story reflect the kind of atmosphere which would be 
consonant with the tone. 

The tone of a story is usually indicated in the opening 
sentences. These strike, as one might say, the key-note 
of the whole composition. Notice the indications of 
gloom and forebodings of impending disaster in the open- 
ing paragraphs of Poe 's, The Fall of the House of Usher. 
Now, the important thing in the matter of tone is unity. 
One would be shocked in reading such a story as this of 
Poe's if a ludicrous incident were inserted a third of 
the way from the beginning, and further on a descriptive 
paragraph picturing a beautiful summer evening, with 
soft moonlight and the scent of honeysuckle enveloping a 
romantic young pair in the park beside the decaying 
house of Usher. 

Unity of Tone does not, however, preclude variety, as 
one might suppose. Life is not sympathetic with the 
emotions of human beings unless by mere coincidence. 
A story in which the prevailing tone is that of apprehen- 
sion of calamity might have some speeches which are 
hilariously humorous, if the speeches were made by some 
one unaware of the danger, or by a hysterical character, 
or by one who had become careless of consequences or 
who wished to dispel the apprehensiveness of others. 
The Drunken Porter Scene in Macbeth and the speeches 
of Tom of Bedlam in the Storm Scene in King Lear are 
examples of diversity of tone in drama. These examples 
show that the contrast in tone felt so keenly by the 
audience or reader does not, in fact, break the unity, but 
deepens the feeling of tragedy induced by the whole 
piece. 

[71] 



THE SHORT STORY 



It is, however, much more difficult to insert a note of 
seriousness or tragedy into a piece of literature the pre- 
vailing tone of which is light or humorous. The effect 
is usually one of incongruity, and is not convincing. An 
attempt at seriousness by some one of the characters in 
a story of light tone may be used effectively by contrast 
to augment the fun made by the others. The seriousness 
of Mrs. Hilary in Anthony Hope 's, The Bouse Opposite 
is contrasted with the levity of Hilary and Mr. Carter. 
The unity of tone, that of humorous levity, is maintained 
as the total effect of the story. Read Thomas Bailey 
Aldrich 's Goliath, and try to determine what devices are 
employed to maintain the tone of mock seriousness in 
this story, which on the surface promises to be tragic. 

Finally, the effect of tone should not be monotony but 
rather the production of unity by means of the harmon- 
ious employment of variety. 

STYLE 

Style is a quality in composition about which a great 
deal has been said in a general way, but it is incapable of 
simple technical analysis. In one sense — that in which 
it is conceived by Robert Louis Stevenson, the novelist, in 
his essay On Style in Literature in Essays and Reviews, 
and by Clayton Hamilton, the critic, in his Materials 
and Methods of Fiction — the laws of style may be deter- 
mined and arranged. For to Mr. Hamilton prose style 
means the manner of composition which produces the 
effects which distinguish literary prose from mere infor- 
mational writing such as one expects in reading a 
treatise, say, on Nature's Ways of Scattering Seeds. 
This is a real distinction, and to produce the artistic 

[72] 



MEANS USED IN DEVELOPING A THEME 

effects of literary prose a writer, instinctively or con- 
sciously, employs certain poetic combinations of speech 
sounds, certain orderings of words and phrases in his 
sentences, certain figures of speech (poetic in their asso- 
ciations), all of which produce a pleasurable stimulation 
of the aesthetic sense of the reader and satisfy the 
demands of art in harmony, proportion, and restraint. 
Mr. Hamilton would say, then, that a writer has style, 
or has no style. 

But most readers and critics understand the term 
style to mean the individual manner of a writer. Accept- 
ing this statement, one might speak of a style as being 
good or tolerable or downright bad; as being poetic, 
straightforward, terse, nervous, bald, florid, or any one 
of a dozen other descriptive terms. One might compare 
the style of one author with another. The student of a 
Short Story might examine it for the peculiarities of 
composition which distinguish the compositions of its 
author from those of others. Peculiarities of sentence 
arrangement, of word order, and of phrase-making might 
be noticed. The fondness of the author for certain words, 
or certain similes and metaphors; his taste for poetic 
words — poetic on account of their associations or on 
account of their sound — onomatopeia, assonance, alliter- 
ation, parallel and balanced structure; these, or their 
lack, and many other individual characteristics mark the 
composition of one author as different from another. 
Differences in manner make it possible for a reader to 
recognize a certain author by his writing. Since these 
will occur to the student as he reads the stories, no special 
purpose could be effectively served by an attempt to 
catalog them. 

[73] 



THE SHORT STORY 



APPEARANCE OF TRUTH 

One of the commonest mistakes of the amateur story 
writer is to select his incidents from actual life, believing 
that he will thus produce a convincing piece of fiction. 
It is very often harder to make a strange thing that has 
actually happened seem really true than it is to invent 
a series of events and breathe into them the breath of 
real life. Many a one has a few stories which he hesitates 
to tell except to friends who know him very well. These 
events, he knows, have actually happened, but he also 
knows them to be the kind of truths that are stranger 
than fiction. In a student's story which came to a 
teacher's desk recently for criticism there was a mystery 
to be solved. A young man in a hunting party had 
shot and killed a man with whom he had quarreled some 
time before. It looked like murder ; but the young man 
protested that it was an accident, although he was unable 
to explain how it was possible for such a thing to happen. 
When the truth came out, it was learned that the young 
man was riding under a hickory tree when the shot was 
fired, and that a nut falling from the tree had hit the 
hair-trigger of his rifle and caused the fatality. In answer 
to the teacher's objection to this incident on the ground 
of improbability the student said: " I know of a case 
where this actually happened." Maybe so, but what a 
strain upon one's credulity! It can hardly be made to 
seem true. What we have here would be an accident 
not likely to happen to one man in a million riding under 
that hickory tree with a gun in his hand. It is not, 
however, impossible to use actual incidents. James 
B. Connolly says of his own employment of facts : " Most 
of the stories I have written have been founded on facts. 

[74] 



MEANS USED IN DEVELOPING A THEME 

I start with a fact. Something happens in life, and 
sets a man thinking ; and to account for it he builds up 
his own theory, supplying motives, action, and result, out 
of his own knowledge of life." Mr. Connolly begins 
with a fact and then builds upon it, as all writers of 
fiction do, supplying from imagination where the facts 
are insufficient for the illumination of the theme, leaving 
out what would obscure the appearance of truth, and 
arranging what is left in a sequence that will give the 
whole matter an air of truth not originally a part of 
the actual fact or facts. In fiction the Actual is of much 
less importance than the Appearance of Truth — verisi- 
militude. 

SOME DEFINITIONS AND DISTINCTIONS 

Realism and Romance. — Each of these terms, Realism 
and Romance, has a meaning to most readers which con- 
forms pretty closely to the generally accepted meaning ; 
and yet the connotation of the words differs with individ- 
ual readers. Writers were once distinguished as Classic 
or Romantic. Those who looked back to the age of the 
classics for themes, treatment, literary conventions, and 
rules of construction were called Classic writers; and 
those who flouted the classic rules and traditions, and 
looked into the remote in time and place for their plots, 
and to no authority for their manner of treatment were 
called Romantic. 

These terms have been discarded in their original 
applications but Romance still has a shadow of its orig- 
inal meaning. It also means much more. It means 
freedom from restraint, warmth of treatment, breadth 
of imagination, and protest against the obvious and the 

[75] 



THE SHORT STORY 



actual. This is not saying that all romantic fiction has 
all these qualities or that realistic fiction has none of 
them, but that a piece in which these qualities predomi- 
nate is designated as Romantic. 

Realism in fiction has been defined negatively by 
Bliss Perry in the following terms: " Realistic fiction 
is that which does not shrink from the commonplace or 
from the unpleasant in its effort to depict things as they 
are, life as it is. ' ' To say the same thing the other way 
about: Realistic fiction seeks to present a picture of 
things as they are, and life as it is. In doing so the 
writer often has to include the commonplace and the 
unpleasant. The temperate realist is careful, however, 
to keep the unpleasant and the commonplace in fiction 
within the proportions which they occupy in real life. 

Idealism and Symbolism. — Idealism in fiction is an 
attempt to see things as they should be. The writer may 
in the main follow either the romantic plan or the 
realistic. If, as a Realist, he deals with the actual, he 
eliminates or disregards the imperfections. If he is 
romantic, his imagination neglects those elements which 
would mar the perfect creation. 

Symbolism. — In either romantic or realistic literature 
there may be a mystic or a hidden meaning below the 
obvious meaning. This is seen more often in poetry and 
the drama than in short stories. Spenser's, Faerie 
Queene has a series of such meanings. Tennyson's The 
Idylls of the King is a series of romantic pieces dominated 
by a symbolistic meaning. William Butler Yeats pre- 
sents Kathleen ni Houlihan as Ireland herself in her 
struggle for liberty, as does also Lady Gregory in The 
Rising of the Moon. These plays are at once realistic, 

[76] 



MEANS USED IN DEVELOPING A THEME 

idealistic, and symbolic. The Idylls of the King are 
romantic, idealistic, and symbolic. 

DISTINCTIONS IN TERMS 

The opposing terms are Realism and Romance. Ideal- 
ism and Symbolism may be associated with either, though 
as a matter of fact they more often go with Romance. 

Realism and Romance are terms used to designate 
the method which an author adopts. Idealism is an end 
to be attained, and it may be attained by an author using 
either method. Symbolism is a device, and may be asso- 
ciated with either method of writing in connection with 
idealism or without it. 

The way to learn to recognize these qualities in fiction 
is not through definitions, or enumerations of the qual- 
ities of each, but by reading widely until one gets a 
feeling for Realism, and Romance, and so becomes able 
to identify them by means of their total impression, as 
one recognizes an acquaintance, and not by means of 
conformity to a list of distinctive attributes or qualities. 

THE SHORT STORY, THE NOVELETTE, AND THE NOVEL 

Since the terms, Short Story, Novelette, and Novel are 
used to distinguish the forms of fiction which one meets 
in his reading, an effort should be made here to distin- 
guish them, one from the other. 

" The Short Story aims to produce a single narrative 
effect with the greatest economy of means that is con- 
sistent with the utmost emphasis. , ' — Clayton Hamilton 
in the Bookman, February, 1904. 

The Novelette borrows from the technic of both the 
story and the novel. From the story it gets the idea of 

[77] 



THE SHORT STORY 



a single plot without digressions, but it does not employ 
the greatest economy of means to produce an effect. Like 
the novel it may use a larger number of incidents in 
its plot structure than the story, and each of these inci- 
dents may be more fully developed through conversation, 
narration, and description. In the main, however, a 
novelette is more like a story than a novel. It is, in fact, 
as it is sometimes called, a " long-short." 

The Novel may have a main plot and one or more sub- 
plots in parallel or contrast to the main plot. One or 
more characters in each sub-plot may play a part or 
parts in the main plot and so tie the two, three, or four 
separate actions into a unified whole. In working out 
his design the novelist may use many incidents in depict- 
ing or developing his characters, or in working out his 
theme. He may use a more deliberate method in report- 
ing the conversations, letting them work out in full. 
The story writer at best can give only significant ' ' sam- 
ples " of the talk. Many characters may be used in a 
novel, and to produce a given effect the writer may let 
one set of characters work through a scene, and then, 
for fear that the impression has not been made strong 
enough, he may have other groups go through similar 
processes with other sets of incidents. The story writer, 
practicing the utmost economy of his means, may make 
but a single trial at producing a given impression. 

REFERENCES 

Hamilton, Clayton. Materials and Methods of Fiction, 
Doubleday, Page and Company, Chapter x. 

Perry, Bliss. A Study of Prose Fiction, Houghton, 
Mifflin Company, Chapters x and xi. 
[78] 



MEANS USED IN DEVELOPING A THEME 

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 

Since the purpose of this chapter is to present defini- 
tions and distinctions, no detailed study of stories is 
attached. It seems more logical to apply these technical 
distinctions to each of the stories used in the second part 
of the book for careful study. 



[79] 



CHAPTER VII 
THE MANAGEMENT OF THE MATERIALS 

POINT OF VIEW 

STUDENTS of fiction recognize four distinct points 
of view which the author may choose from. 1. The 
first person. He may choose to tell his story as if he 
were the chief character or some character of secondary 
importance who looks on and reports what the more 
important characters do and say. 2. The limited third 
person. He may represent himself as an interested 
observer, looking on and giving an account of what an 
on-looker could see and know. 3. The omniscient third 
person. From this point of view the author may tell 
everything that happens everywhere, even what the 
characters are thinking, the motives back of the thoughts, 
and the philosophy of life which accounts for the motives. 
4. Diaries or letters, or entries in a diary only occasion- 
ally and for the sake of variety. Success in this form is 
elusive. Perhaps the best known story in the form of 
letters is Thomas Bailey Aldrich's Majorie Daw, and 
the most skillful performance with a series of documents 
of various sorts is Brander Matthews' The Document's 
in the Case. 

Combinations of two or more of the four points of 
view are not unusual. In a narrative written in the first 
or third person letters and papers are frequently intro- 
duced; and in the letter form, narrative from the point 

[80] 



THE MANAGEMENT OF THE MATERIALS 

of view of the first or third person is nearly always 
resorted to in getting over some situation hard to make 
clear by means of the letters. Marjorie Daw is brought 
to a close by using narrative in the third person. 

Each of these points of view has some distinctive 
advantage and some disadvantages. If the story is in 
the first person and the narrator is the chief character, 
it is not in very good taste for him to tell how he bore 
himself in some test of skill, or wit, or courage. The 
device adopted by most writers who wish to retain the 
vividness of first-hand narrative in an adventure story 
or story of triumph of intellect is to have the story told 
in the first person by an interested on-looker. Poe lets 
the husband of the heroine tell how by indomitable will 
Ligeia conquers death. Dr. "Watson recounts the 
triumphs of Sherlock Holmes. David Balfour tells the 
remarkable encounters and victories of Allan Breck. 

The use of the omniscient third person is the easiest 
method of all, but it is likely to miss the vividness that 
accompanies the face-to-face narration of one who saw 
and heard. There is a danger, too, of knowing so much, 
as this god-like abstraction looks down on his creatures 
and their works, that the story becomes unconvincing, 
even absurd. Skillfully used, however, as this method is 
by most of our best story writers, it is very effective. 

The narrative in the limited third person, recounting 
only what some unseen interested observer could have 
seen, heard, and known, requires the greatest skill, and 
when well done is perhaps the most effective of all. In 
the limited third person the observer may be entirely 
outside the story, as he is in the omniscient third person, 
or the author may choose to see his characters through 

[81] 



THE SHORT STORY 



the eyes of some secondary character in the story, and 
report (in the third person) only what that character 
could know or infer from what he saw and heard. In 
such a case the author's judgment of his characters 
would have to be in accord with the probable judgment 
such a character would form under the given conditions. 

TITLES 

The purpose of a title is the same as that of a label 
on a package of merchandise offered for sale. It should 
be attractive, and should correctly characterize the con- 
tents of the story. To be attractive it should be short 
and definite, and worded so as to catch the attention 
through pleasing sound or some interesting turn of 
expression. In characterizing the contents the truth 
should be told as far as the title goes, but something 
should be left to imagination. The Gate of the Hundred 
Sorrows is a title rather longer than usual, but the word- 
ing is rhythmic, and the suggestion is of something 
dreamy and mysterious. A reader at all susceptible to 
suggestion could not pass such a label without investi- 
gating the contents of the package. Kipling's titles are 
usually of this compelling kind. Think of The Man Who 
Woidd be King, The Man Who Was, Without Benefit of 
Clergy, The Courting of Dinah Shad, The Brushwood 
Boy, and They. Contrast such titles as A Branch Road, 
A Kentucky Cardinal, Goliath, Fame's Little Day, with 
titles like An Experience on a Vacation, Margaret's Duty 
or How She Saved the Train, The Difficulties of Building 
a Railroad in Uganda, and Patty's Perilous Predicament. 

A whole chapter might be written on what to avoid 
and what effects to strive for in selecting a title for a 

[82] 



THE MANAGEMENT OF THE MATERIALS 

story. For the student, however, the better practice is 
to examine many stories and try to discover what attracts, 
what repels, and what leaves one merely uninterested. 

BEGINNINGS 

Two distinct methods of making beginnings are em- 
ployed. The writer knows that there are facts which 
the reader must know before the story can actually be 
set into motion. If he begins with simple narrative, the 
story is likely to be slow in getting started. On the 
other hand the device of opening with a bit of attractive 
dialog can be successful only when the author succeeds 
in going forward. This is not easy, for the facts of 
time, place, characters, background, etc., must be pre- 
sented, and they are not easily presented in dialog. 
Often after the opening dialog the writer halts the story 
to explain the situation, and sometimes the halt leaves 
the characters in an awkward suspense. Both plans have 
been used with success. In The Whirligig of Life "'0. 
Henry ' ' uses the natural order of preliminary situation 
in narrative, giving time and place and introducing the 
three characters and describing them; then follows the 
initial incident and the incidents which form the steps 
of the ladder leading up to the culmination. 

See how briefly these preliminary facts are put before 
the reader. 

Justice of the Peace Benaja "Widdup sat in the door 
of his office. [First character.] Halfway to the Zenith 
the Cumberland range rose blue-gray in the afternoon 
haze. [Time and Place.] A speckled hen swaggered 
down the street of the settlement cackling foolishly. 
[Atmosphere and Background.! 

[83] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Up the road came the sound of creaking axles, and 
then a slow cloud of dust, and then a bull-cart bearing 
Ransie Bilbro and his wife. [The other two characters.] 
The cart stopped at the justice's door, and the two 
climbed down. [Action.] Ransie was a narrow six feet 
of sallow brown skin and yellow hair. The imperturb- 
ability of the mountains hung upon him like a suit of 
armor. [Two sentences describing the chief male char- 
acter.] The woman was calicoed, angled, snuff-brushed, 
and weary with unknown desires. Through it all 
gleamed a faint protest of cheated youth unconscious of 
its loss. 

" We-all," said the woman, in a voice like the wind 
blowing through pine boughs, " wants a divo'ce." [Ini- 
tial Incident.] 

Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman in The Revolt of Mother 
begins with dialogue and carries on the conversation so 
deftly that by the introduction of a few comments and 
explanatory remarks the whole preliminary situation 
is made clear without a pause in the progress of the 
story : 

" Father! " 

" What is it?" 

" What are them men diggin' over there in the field 
for?" 

There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the 
lower part of the old man's face, as if some heavy weight 
had settled therein ; he shut his mouth tight and went on 
harnessing the great bay mare. He hustled the collar 
on with a jerk. 

" Father! " 

The dialogue, narrative, description, and author's com- 
ments are thus deftly woven together through two or 
three pages until the whole preliminary situation is 

[84] 



THE MANAGEMENT OF THE MATERIALS 

made clear to the reader without delay or break in con- 
tinuity. 

From an observation of Poe on the purpose of fiction 
some recent writers have concluded that a hint of the 
nature of the story will always appear in the manner 
of the beginning — if the story is properly constructed. 
They say that a story of incident will begin with action ; 
a story of character, with a bit of dialogue, revealing 
characteristics of the speakers; or a story of setting 
(background) with description. 

"While this is usually true of Poe's tales and stories it 
is not characteristic of stories by writers of today. Oc- 
casionally a writer instinctively feels the propriety of 
beginning in accordance with this principle and realizes 
what his story gains by the directness of approach 
involved in such a method. But an examination of a 
large number of stories does not show any uniformity 
of practice in this particular. 

However, it may be said that a story is strengthened, 
if in the very beginning its end is clearly in the author 's 
view, and if he can make his purpose clear to the reader. 
Any device, the one mentioned above, or another, which 
makes clear to the reader the purpose and end of the 
story is a valuable one, provided that it does not eliminate 
the element of suspense so necessary to plots of nearly 
every kind. 

CONVERSATION 

Story writers seem more and more inclined to use the 
dramatic method of developing their plots. Some of 
the stories of Hawthorne and Poe are told almost entirely 
in narrative in the third person with very little conver- 
sation. Now and then a writer of current short stories 

[85] 



THE SHORT STORY 



will allow his characters to tell everything in direct dis- 
course, using almost no comment of the author, no 
description, and no simple narration. The mass of read- 
ers doubtless are strongly attracted to a story that shows 
much conversation as one glances through the pages, but 
this method — an imitation of the method of the play- 
wright — may be no more than a passing vogue, as 
dialect was, only a very few years ago. The impression 
is abroad that recent stories are as much as seventy-five 
per cent conversation. An examination of a hundred 
recent stories by representative authors would probably 
show that not more than forty per cent of the words 
occur in the direct discourse. The other sixty per cent 
would be divided between author's comment on and 
explanation of the speeches, and narrative and descrip- 
tive paragraphs. 

Recent stories show a decided increase in skill in hand- 
ling the explanatory remarks which accompany the 
speeches. In their simplest form these are " he said," 
" said he," " she said," and " said she." Such remarks 
reveal nothing of character. The use of adverbs suggests 
the character, the temperament, the manners, and the 
mood of the speaker. The substitution of other words 
for said gives variety and may even take the place of 
description in drawing a character. The most recent 
development of this kind is the custom of omitting these 
remarks altogether wherever the speakers can be dif- 
ferentiated without them. This is the purely dramatic 
method, commendable if not made into a fad. It can 
be carried so far as to rob the story of much of the 
charm which the technic of fiction permits, but which 
that of drama denies. 

[86] 



THE MANAGEMENT OF THE MATERIALS 



SUSPENSE 

From the very beginning a story should be so planned 
that with a given set of characters in a given situation 
or series of incidents the outcome is inevitable. This 
does not imply, however, that the reader can accurately 
foresee from the initial incident what that outcome is to 
be. In fact, the element of suspense, of uncertainty of 
outcome, is one of the elements which contributes most 
to that increase of emotional tension induced by a good 
story as one approaches the culmination. The solution 
of the plot should come after some suspense and with a 
note of surprise, but should not be incredible. For, as 
one looks back over a well-constructed story, he should 
see that the culmination was not only natural but also 
carefully prepared for and held in suspense so as to 
produce a deeper impression through the suddenness of 
the well-prepared stroke. 

SUGGESTION AND RESTRAINT 

One of the very noticeable differences in the manners 
of the amateur and the professional writers of stories 
is in the management of suggestion and restraint. It 
is well understood that economy is a very important ele- 
ment in the technic of the Short Story. Now, the unskill- 
ful writer feels obliged to go into detail in every portion 
of his story. Given the task of writing The Whirligig of 
Life, he would have made it something like this : 

" As the Justice of the Peace of a little mountain 
settlement in Eastern Tennessee sat in the doorway of 
the cabin that served him as an office, toward the middle 
of a summer afternoon in the year of 19 — , he was sur- 
prised to see in the distance beyond a turn of the road a 

[87] 



THE SHORT STORY 



cloud of dust, indicating the approach of a wheeled 
vehicle. He hastily drew on his boots, for it was his 
custom to wear these articles of apparel (considered so 
necessary in localities nearer the centers of refinement), 
only during the few minutes in the week when he was 
engaged in the discharge of his official duties. In about 
five minutes he was able to discern the cause of the cloud 
of dust. An observer not a native of the place would 
have been surprised at the time required for the vehicle 
to round the turn in the narrow mountain road, little 
better than a path, but Benaja Widdup had lived there 
all his life, and his father and father's father before 
him. Instinctively he knew that the dust was being 
raised by an ox-cart, and so he was not surprised at all 
when he descried such a conveyance, drawn by the little 
red bull, which he knew belonged to a young man who 
lived in a small clearing six or seven miles up the trail 
toward the wooded heights of the Cumberlands, which 
in the afternoon haze would have made a beautiful pic- 
ture for one who had the artistic temperament. But 
Benaja Widdup had it not ; neither did Ransie Bilbro nor 
his wife Ariela, the occupants of the cart, for life to 
them was a dull reality. They depended for their liveli- 
hood upon the few acres of yellow-bladed corn that clung 
precariously to the clay hillside, and the game that could 
still be trapped or shot in the mountains. The cart 
drew up beside the door. Ransie threw the single rope 
line around the upright stick that stood in the center of 
the dashboard of the cart and climbed down on one side 
of the cart while his wife climbed down on the other, 
the little red bull browsing on a bunch of already half- 
stripped hazel bushes which grew beside the road. ' ' 

[88] 



THE MANAGEMENT OF THE MATERIALS 

The purpose of this long paragraph is to create the 
atmosphere for the story, to suggest time and place, and 
to introduce the characters. To do this nearly four 
hundred words are employed, and yet the picture lacks 
sharpness of outline. All the details are included that 
0. Henry used in the original. He employed only a 
hundred words for that part of the story. Compelled by 
the technical demands of the Short Story, he restrained 
any impulse toward using fulness of detail, and pro- 
duced all the effects that fulness would seem to assure, 
by the employment of suggestion; and strange to say, 
the total impression is more definite than that produced 
by the long paragraph. 

Take as a second illustration of the use of suggestion 
and restraint in the character descriptions in The Whirl- 
i>9i9 of Life. " Eansie was a narrow six feet of sallow 
brown skin and yellow hair. The imperturbability of 
the mountains hung upon him like a suit of armor. 
The woman was calicoed, angled, snuff-brushed, and 
weary with unknown desires. Through it all gleamed a 
faint protest of cheated youth, unconscious of its loss." 
Two characters done in fifty words. Imagine, if you 
can, how an amateur would have seized upon this oppor- 
tunity to present full length, detailed portraits of these 
two characters. The method of 0. Henry is like that of 
the cartoonist who gives in two or three strokes of his 
pencil the significant lines of a figure and allows the 
imagination to supply the rest. 

Observe the description of the blind woman in 
Kipling's They, of Mrs. Bathurst in the story of that 
name, and of Karnehan in The Man Who Would be King. 
It is surprising how full these descriptions seem, and 

[89] 



THE SHORT STORY 



how few words are actually found when you have sum- 
med them up. In these stories one may observe another 
device in the use of suggestion that has not yet been 
mentioned. This is the scattering of the descriptive 
phrases and sentences through the story, and thus 
strengthening the illusion of a portrait in detail. 

All successful writers practice a rigid restraint in the 
use of incidents, in the dialogue, in their comment upon 
the action, and in every other means that they use, just 
as they do in these elements of technic which have been 
treated with considerable fulness in the foregoing para- 
graphs. The principal device which they use to avoid 
such a piling up of details as would dull the sharpness of 
outline in the total impression is skillful suggestion. 

ENDINGS 

Two common methods of bringing a story to a close 
are employed by the most successful Short Story writers. 
The one terminates the story abruptly with the cul- 
mination of the plot, at the highest point of emo- 
tional interest. This is the method of Stevenson in 
Markheim and of Poe in Ligeia. The other passes over 
the culmination and in a quieter mood drops down to a 
well rounded conclusion. De Maupassant's, The Piece 
of String and " 0. Henry's/' The Whirligig of Life are 
so constructed. This falling action may be no more than 
a few lines and a single incident, or it may be as much 
as a third of the whole story. In The Whirligig of Life 
it is about one-sixth of the whole story. The culmination 
comes with the realization on the part of Ransie and 
Ariela that they really love each other and cannot live 
apart. The conclusion is the part of the story involving 

[90] 



THE MANAGEMENT OF THE MATERIALS 

the re-marriage and setting out for the cabin in the 
mountains. 

REFERENCES 

Albright, Evelyn May, The Short Story, Chapter ix. 

The Macmillan Company. 
Esenwein, J. Berg, Writing the Short Story, Chapter 

xii. Hinds, Noble & Eldredge. 

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 

The materials of this chapter are to be used in the 
studies which follow the reading of the stories which 
make up the remainder of the book. 



[91] 



CHAPTER VIII 
A PLAN FOR THE STUDY OF A SHORT STORY 

THE questions which follow are intended to suggest 
a series of topics so arranged as to give a complete 
review of the technic of a story. In applying the ques- 
tions to a particular story, care should be taken to avoid 
an application so literal as to deaden your interest in 
the story itself. If a written review is attempted, these 
questions should be used as topics for paragraphs. The 
whole review when complete should be in the form of a 
paper such as one would be willing to present as a part 
of a program in a literary club. 

1. Write a brief synopsis of the story, using not more 
than three paragraphs — fewer if possible. 

2. What is the theme ? Is the theme true ? Does the 
author believe it to be true, or is it only a possible 
fancy ? 

3. Outline the plot, showing (a) the preliminary sit- 
uation, (b) the initial incident, (c) the incidents which 
form the steps in the ladder of rising action, (d) the 
culmination, (e) the steps in the falling action (if there 
are any), (f) the conclusion. (See the diagrams for 
plot outlines on page 41.) *. £ 

4. What is the tone of the story: tragic, serious, 
humorous, farcical, poetic, dreamy? Use one of these 
or any other word that characterizes the tone. 

5. Is this a story of Character, Incident, or Setting? 

[92] 



PLAN FOR STUDY OF A SHORT STORY 

6. Make a list of the characters. 

a. The principal characters. 

b. Those of secondary importance. 

c. Those used merely as background, if there are 
any such. 

7. Which of the characters have distinct individual- 
ity? Are any merely personified types of some quality 
or passion, such as greed, jealousy, hate, etc. ? Are there 
any merely impersonal figures ? 

8. In delineating character does the author describe 
them (direct delineation), or does he make the character 
reveal himself in speech and action (indirect delinea- 
tion) ? If he uses both methods, which is predominant ? 

9. Are the characters true to life; are they better or 
worse than people in actual life ; or are they caricatures 
(with actual characteristics exaggerated) of people such 
as one might know in actual life ? 

10. Is there any character, speech, or situation that 
does not seem true to life? 

11. Does the emotional tension increase and the story 
move with increasing rapidity as the culmination is 
approached ? 

12. Is the setting interesting for its own sake, or is it 
used merely as a background for the characters and 
incidents ? 

13. What seems to have suggested the title? 

14. Is the authoVs point of view: 

a. The First Person? 

b. The Limited Third Person? 

c. The Omniscient Third Person? 

d. Letters or a Diary? 

e. A Combination of two or more of these ? 

[93] 



THE SHORT STORY 



15. What method of beginning is employed? 

16. Does the author ever insert his own opinion into 
the story independent of the characters? Give 
examples. 

17. About what per cent of the words occur in direct 
discourse? What per cent in simple narrative? What 
per cent in description? 

18. Are there any unrelated episodes — incidents that 
do not aid in developing the plot ? 

19. How much time elapses in the working out of the 
plot? Account for the time scheme in detail. 

20. Is the author's method that of the realist or 
romantic? In connection with your comment on his 
method make note of idealism, or symbolism, or both. 

21. Make note of any effects of style which are pleas- 
ing. Any which are unpleasant. Any which are 
characteristic of or peculiar to the author. 

22. The most effective short story is one that employs 
(1) characters highly worth knowing, and through these 
works out a great (2) theme upon a (3) stage (back- 
ground or setting) suited to the (4) action and the 
people of the story. Does the story you are studying 
fall short in any of these four specifications ? 

AN APPLICATION OF THE PLAN ' 

THE WHIRLIGIG OF LIFE * 

By 0. Henry 

Sydney Porter (1867-1911) "O. Henry," was born at Greens- 
boro, North Carolina, and died in New York. He began his 
literary work as a newspaper writer in Texas. The settings 

* Copyrighted 1910 by Doubleday, Page and Company. Re- 
printed by special arrangement with the publishers. 

[94] 



PLAN FOR STUDY OF A SHORT STORY 

. 

for his early stories are in the South and "West, but in later 
years he drew his inspiration from the city about him. In the 
selection of themes, and in technical treatment he resembles 
Maupassant, and has been called the " American Maupassant." 

Justice of the Peace Benaja Widdup sat in the door 
of his office. Halfway to the zenith the Cumberland 
range rose blue-gray in the afternoon haze. A speckled 
hen swaggered down the main street of the ' ' settlement, ' ' 
cackling foolishly. 

Up the road came a sound of creaking axles, and then 
a slow cloud of dust, and then a bull-cart bearing Ransie 
Bilbro and his wife. The cart stopped at the justice's 
door, and the two climbed down. Ransie was a narrow 
six feet of sallow brown skin and yellow hair. The 
imperturbability of the mountains hung upon him like 
a suit of armor. The woman was calicoed, angled, snuff- 
brushed, and weary with unknown desires. Through it 
all gleamed a faint protest of cheated youth unconscious 
of its loss. 

The justice of the peace slipped his feet into his shoes, 
for the sake of dignity, and moved to let them enter. 

" We-all," said the woman, in a voice like the wind 
blowing through pine boughs, ' ' wants a divo 'ce. ' ' She 
looked at Ransie to see if he noted any flaw or ambiguity 
or evasion or partiality or self-partisanship in her state- 
ment of their business. 

" A divo'ce/' repeated Ransie, with a solemn nod. 
" We-all can't git along together nohow. It's lonesome 
enough fur to live in the mount 'ins when a man and a 
woman keers for one another. But when she 's a-spittin ' 
like a wildcat or a-sullenin' like a hoot-owl in the cabin, 
a man ain't got no call to live with her." 

[95] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" When he's a no- 'count varmint," said the woman, 
without any especial warmth, " a-traipsin' along of 
scalawags and moonshiners and a-layin y on his back pizen 
'ith co'n whisky, and a-pesterin' folks with a pack o' 
hungry, trinin' houn's to feed! " 

" When she keeps a-throwin' skillet lids," came Ran- 
sie's antiphony, " and slings b'ilin' water on the best 
coon-dog in the Cumberlands, and sets herself agin' 
cookin' a man's victuals, and keeps him awake o' nights 
accusin ' him of a sight of doin 's ! " 

" When he's al'ays a-fightin' the revenues, and gits a 
hard name in the mount 'ins fur a mean man, who's 
gwine to be able fur to sleep o' nights? " 

The justice of the peace stirred deliberately to his 
duties. He placed his one chair and a wooden stool for 
his petitioners. He opened his book of statutes on the 
table and scanned the index. Presently he wiped his 
spectacles and shifted his inkstand. 

" The law and the statutes," said he, " air silent on 
the subjeck of divo'ce as fur as the jurisdiction of this 
co't air concerned. But, accordin' to equity and the 
constitution and the golden rule, it's a bad barg'in that 
can't run both ways. If a justice of the peace can 
marry a couple, it's plain that he is bound to be able 
to divo'ce 'em. This here office will issue a decree of 
divo'ce and abide by the decision of the Supreme Co't 
to hold it good. ' ' 

Ransie Bilbro drew a small tobacco-bag from his 
trouser's pocket. Out of this he shook upon the table 
a five-dollar note. " Sold a b'arskin and two foxes fur 
that," he remarked. " It's all the money we got." 

' ' The regular price of a divo 'ce in this co 't, ' ' said the 

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PLAN FOR STUDY OF A SHORT STORY 

justice, " air five dollars/ ' He stuffed the bill into the 
pocket of his homespun vest with a deceptive air of 
indifference. "With much bodily toil and mental travail 
he wrote the decree upon half a sheet of foolscap, and 
then copied it upon the other. Ransie Bilbro and his 
wife listened to his reading of the document that was to 
give them freedom: 

" Know all men by these presents that Ransie Bilbro 
and his wife, Ariela Bilbro, this day personally appeared 
before me and promises that hereinafter they will neither 
love, honor, nor obey each other, neither for better nor 
worse, being of sound mind and body, and accept sum- 
mons for divorce according to the peace and dignity of 
the State. Herein fail not, so help you God. Benaja 
Widdup, justice of the peace in and for the county of 
Piedmont, State of Tennessee.' ' 

The justice was about to hand one of the documents 
to Ransie. The voice of Ariela delayed the transfer. 
Both men looked at her. Their dull masculinity was 
confronted by something sudden and unexpected in the 
woman. 

1 ' Judge, don 't you give him that air paper yit. 'Tain't 
all settled, nohow. I got to have my rights first. I got 
to have my ali-money. 'Tain't no kind of a way to do 
fur a man to divo'ce his wife 'thout her havin' a cent 
fur to do with. I'm a-layin' off to be a-goin' up to 
brother Ed's up on Hogback Mount 'in. I'm bound fur 
to hev a pa'r of shoes and some snuff and things besides. 
Ef Ranee kin affo'd a divo'ce, let him pay me ali- 
money.' ' 

Ransie Bilbro was stricken to dumb perplexity. There 
had been no previous hint of alimony. Women were 

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already bringing up startling and unlooked-for issues. 
Justice Benaja Widdup felt that the point demanded 
judicial decision. The authorities were also silent on 
the subject of alimony. But the woman's feet were 
bare. The trail of Hogback Mountain was steep and 
flinty. 

" Ariela Bilbro," he asked, in official tones, " how 
much did you 'low would be good and sufficient ali-money 
in the case befo' the co't? " 

' ' I 'lowed, ' ' she answered, ' ' fur the shoes and all, to 
say five dollars. That ain't much for ali-money, but I 
reckon that'll git me to up brother Ed's." 

" The amount," said the justice, " air not onreason- 
able. Ransie Bilbro, you air ordered by the co't to pay 
the plaintiff the sum of five dollars befo' the decree of 
divo'ce air issued." 

" I hain't no mo' money," breathed Ransie, heavily. 
" I done paid you all I had." 

" Otherwise," said the justice, looking severely over 
his spectacles, " you are in contempt of co't." 

" I reckon if you gimme till tomorrow," pleaded 
the husband, " I mout be able to rake or scrape it 
up somewhars. I never looked for to be a-payin' no 
ali-money. ,, 

" The case air adjourned," said Benaja, " till tomor- 
row, when you-all will present yo 'selves and obey the 
order of the co't. Followin' of which the decrees of 
divo'ce will be delivered." He sat down in the door and 
began to loosen a shoestring. 

" We mout as well go down to Uncle Ziah's," decided 
Ransie, " and spend the night." He climbed into the 
cart on one side, and Ariela climbed in on the other. 

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Obeying the flap of his rope, the little red bull slowly 
came around on a tack, and the cart crawled away in the 
nimbus arising from its wheels. 

Justice of the Peace Benaja Widdup smoked his elder- 
stem pipe. Late in the afternoon he got his weekly news- 
paper, and read it until the twilight dimmed its lines. 
Then he lit the tallow candle on his table, and read until 
the moon arose, marking the time for supper. He lived 
in the double log cabin on the slope near the girdled 
poplar. Going home to supper he crossed a little branch 
darkened by a laurel thicket. The dark figure of a man 
stepped from the laurels and pointed a rifle at his breast. 
His hat was pulled down low, and something covered 
most of his face. 

" I want yo' money/ ' said the figure, " 'thout any 
talk. I'm gettin' nervous, and my finger's wabblm' on 
this here trigger." 

" I've only got f-f-five dollars," said the justice, pro- 
ducing it from his vest pocket. 

1 ' Roll it up, ' ' came the order, l ' and stick it in the end 
of this here gun-bar '1." 

The bill was crisp and new. Even fingers that were 
clumsy and trembling found little difficulty in making 
a spill of it and inserting it (this with less ease) into the 
muzzle of the rifle. 

" Now I reckon you kin be goin' along," said the 
robber. 

The justice lingered not on his way. 

The next day came the little red bull, drawing the 
cart to the office door. Justice Benaja Widdup had his 
shoes on, for he was expecting a visit. In his presence 
Ransie Bilbro handed to his wife a five-dollar bill. The 

[99] 



THE SHORT STORY 



official's eye sharply viewed it. It seemed to curl up 
as though it had been rolled and inserted into the end 
of a gun-barrel. But the justice refrained from com- 
ment. It is true that other bills might be inclined to 
curl. 

He handed each one a decree of divorce. Each stood 
awkwardly silent, slowly folding the guarantee of free- 
dom. The woman cast a shy glance full of constraint at 
Ransie. 

" I reckon you'll be goin' back up to the cabin," she 
said, ' ' along 'ith the bull-cart. There 's bread in the tin 
box settin' on the shelf. I put the bacon in the b'ilin'- 
pot to keep the hounds from gettin' it. Don't forget to 
wind the clock tonight. ' ' 

" You air a-goin' to your brother Ed's? " asked Ran- 
sie, with fine unconcern. 

" I was 'lowin' to get along up thar afore night. I 
ain't sayin' as they'll pester theyselves any to make me 
welcome, but I hain't nowhar else fur to go. It's a right 
smart ways, and I reckon I better be goin'. I'll be 
a-sayin' good-bye, Ranse — that is, if you keer fur to 
say so." 

1 ' I don 't know as anybody 's a hound dog, ' ' said Ran- 
sie, in a martyr's voice, " fur to not want to say good- 
bye — 'less you air so anxious to git away that you don't 
want me to say it. ' ' 

Ariela was silent. She folded the five-dollar bill and 
her decree carefully, and placed them in the bosom of 
her dress. Benaja Widdup watched the money disap- 
pear with mournful eyes behind his spectacles. 

And then with his next words he achieved rank (as 
his thoughts ran) with either the great crowd of the 

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PLAN FOR STUDY OF A SHORT STORY 

world's sympathizers or the little crowd of its great 
financiers. 

1 ' Be kind o' lonesome in the old cabin tonight, Ranse, ' ' 
he said. 

Ransie Bilbro stared out at the Cumberlands, clear 
blue now in the sunlight. He did not look at Ariela. 

11 I low it might be lonesome/' he said; " but when 
folks gits mad and wants a divo'ce, you can't make 
folks stay." 

1 ' There 's others wanted a divo 'ce, ' ' said Ariela, speak- 
ing to the wooden stool. " Besides, nobody don't want 
nobody to stay." 

1 ' Nobody never said they didn 't. ' ' 

1 ' Nobody never said they did. I reckon I better start 
on now to brother Ed's." 

* ' Nobody can 't wind that old clock. ' ' 

1 ' Want me to back along 'ith you in the cart and wind 
it fur you, Ranse? " 

The mountaineer 's countenance was proof against emo- 
tion. But he reached out a big hand and enclosed 
Ariela 's thin brown one. Her soul peeped out once 
through her impassive face, hallowing it. 

11 Them hounds shan't pester you no more," said 
Ransie. " I reckon I been mean and low down. You 
wind that clock, Ariela. ' ' 

' ' My heart hit 's in that cabin, Ranse, ' ' she whispered, 
" along 'ith you. I ain't a-goin' to git mad no more. 
Lie's be startin', Ranse, so's we kin git home by sun- 
down. ' ' 

Justice of the Peace Benaja Widdup interposed as 
they started for the door, forgetting his presence. 

" In the name of the State of Tennessee," he said, 
[ioi] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" I forbid you-all to be a-defyin' of its laws and 
statutes. 

" This co't is mo' than willin' and full of joy to see the 
clouds of discord and misunderstandin ' rollin' away 
from two lovin' hearts, but it air the duty of the co't to 
p 'eserve the morals and integrity of the state. The co 't 
reminds you that you air no longer man and wife, but 
air divo'ced by regular decree, and as such air not enti- 
tled to the benefits and 'purtenances of the mattermonal 
estate.' ' 

Ariela caught Ransie 's arm. Did those words mean 
that she must now lose him when they had just learned 
the lesson of life ? 

11 But the co't air prepared," went on the justice, 
" fur to remove the disabilities set up by the decree of 
the divo 'ce. The co 't air on hand to perform the solemn 
ceremony of marri'ge, thus fixin' things up and enablin' 
the parties in the case to resume the honor 'hie and 
elevatin' state of mattermony which they desires. The 
fee fur performin' said ceremony will be, in this case, 
to wit, five dollars. ' ' 

Ariela caught the gleam of promise in his words. 
Swiftly her hand went to her bosom. Freely as an 
alighting dove the bill fluttered to the justice's table. 
Her sallow cheek colored as she stood hand in hand with 
Ransie and listened to the reuniting words. 

Ransie helped her into the cart, and climbed in beside 
her. The little red bull turned once more, and they set 
out, hand-clasped, for the mountains. 

Justice of the Peace Benaja Widdup sat in his door 
and took off his shoes. Once again he fingered the bill 
tucked down in his vest pocket. Once again the speckled 

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PLAN FOR STUDY OF A SHORT STORY 

hen swaggered down the main street of the " settle- 
ment, " cackling foolishly. 

1. Synopsis. Ransie and Ariela Bilbro apply to 
Benaja Widdup, a mountain justice of the peace, for a 
divorce. When they find that they can really be rid of 
each other, they are not so sure they want the divorce. 
Having paid all he had for the decree, Ransie has to 
wait till the following day before he can pay five dollars 
as alimony. That evening he robs the justice of the 
money he has just paid him. The next morning the two 
return to the justice's office and decide to go home to- 
gether. The justice reminds them that they are di- 
vorced, but remarries them for the oft-exchanged five- 
dollar bill. 

2. Theme. Divorce would often be unnecessary if the 
married pair could be made to forget their little annoy- 
ances, and realize their real affection for each other. 

The author treats the subject as if he believed the sup- 
position true ; and one, as he reads, is convinced of its 
truth in this case, and perhaps pretty generally as well. 

3. Outline. I. Preliminary Situation. 

1. Time — The present. 

2. Place — The Tennessee mountains. 

3. The characters introduced. 

II. Initial Incident — The application for a 
divorce. 
III. The ladder. 

LI. The divorce granted and paid for. 
L2. The demand for alimony. 
L3. The robbery. 
IV. Culmination — -The decision to go home to- 
gether. 

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V. Falling action. 

Fl. The remarriage. 
VI. Conclusion — Setting out for home. 

4. Tone. Humorous with underlying seriousness. 

5. This is a story of character. 

6. a. Principal characters. Ransie and Ariela Bilbro. 
b. Secondary character. Benaja Widdup. 

7. All of the characters have distinct individuality. 

8. Some very brief but effective direct delineation of 
character is used, but the indirect method predominates. 

9. All the characters are convincingly true to life. 

10. All the characters, incidents, speeches, and situa- 
tions seem to be true to the kind of life involved in this 
story. 

11. There is no marked increase in speed or in emo- 
tional tension as the culmination is approached; but 
these mountaineers are slow of action and speech, and 
such an increase of speed and emotional tension would 
not seem natural in this story. 

12. The setting is mere background, but an interesting 
one. 

13. The title was apparently suggested by the swift 
revolution of the affections and plans of these two 
people. 

14. The point of view is that of the omniscient third 
person. 

15. The logical beginning is used. 

16. The author does not insert any comment of his 
own. 

17. The direct discourse is almost exactly fifty per cent. 
Description, narrative, and author's comment in about 
equal proportions make up the other fifty. 

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PLAN FOR STUDY OF A SHORT STORY 

18. There are no unrelated episodes. 

19. The time scheme makes an allowance for about 
twenty hours — from the arrival of the cart, in the mid- 
dle of one afternoon to the departure for the cabin the 
next morning. 

20. The author's method in this story is realistic, 
untouched by the mood of either idealism or symbolism. 

21. " O. Henry's " style is that of a master of words. 
He uses dialect and makes it the actual speech of his 
characters. His use of humor that does not offend by 
dropping to the level of ridicule in a serious situation is 
pleasing. The descriptions are brief and rapid, but very 
clear and effective. 

22. The characters are from lowly life, but are worth 
knowing. The situation is one of intense general inter- 
est. The setting is interesting and the incidents compel 
our attention. Perhaps one would not care to call this 
one of the very great stories, but it is a story of consid- 
erable worth. 



[105] 



SHORT STORIES FOR STUDY 



LIGEIA 
By Edgar Allan Poe 

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was the son of an actor and 
an actress, both of whom died when he was a child. He was 
adopted by John Allan, a business man of wealth, of Richmond, 
Virginia. Mr. Allan had Poe educated in private schools in 
Richmond and in England. As a young man he was a student 
in the University of Virginia and the Military Academy at 
West Point, but left both before graduating. His life was a 
series of unfortunate episodes due largely to lack of stability 
of „ character. He began to write very early, publishing 
Tamerlane and Other Poems in 1827; but he did not reach the 
height of his fame until he wrote The Raven (1845). Both 
before and after this he wrote both prose and verse. His 
prose was either critical essays or tales, usually fantastic. 

And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who 
knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For 
God is but a great will pervading all things by nature 
of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the 
angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the 
weakness of his feeble will. — Joseph Glanvill. 

I cannot, for my soul, remember how, when, or even 
precisely where, I first became acquainted with the lady 
Ligeia. Long years since have elapsed, and my memory 
is feeble through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot 
now bring these points to mind, because in truth the 
character of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular, 

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THE SHORT STORY 



yet placid, cast of beauty, and the thrilling and enthrall- 
ing eloquence of her low musical language made their 
way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily 
progressive that they have been unnoticed and unknown. 
Yet I believe that I met her first and most frequently in 
some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine. Of her 
family I have surely heard her speak. That it is of a 
remotely ancient date cannot be doubted. Ligeia! 
Ligeia! Buried in studies of a nature more than all 
else adapted to deaden impressions of the outward world, 
it is by that sweet word alone — by Ligeia — that I 
bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her who is 
no more. And now, while I write, a recollection flashes 
upon me that I have never known the paternal name of 
her who was my friend and my betrothed, and who 
became the partner of my studies, and finally the wife 
of my bosom. Was it a playful charge on the part of 
my Ligeia? or was it a test of my strength of affection, 
that I should institute no inquiries upon this point? or 
was it rather a caprice of my own — a wildly romantic 
offering on the shrine of the most passionate devotion? 
I but indistinctly recall the fact itself — what wonder 
that I have utterly forgotten the circumstances which 
originated or attended it? And, indeed, if ever that 
spirit which is entitled Romance — if ever she, the wan 
and the misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, 
presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened, then 
most surely she presided over mine. 

There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory 
fails me not. It is the person of Ligeia. In stature she 
was tall, somewhat slender, and, in her latter days, even 
emaciated. I would in vain attempt to portray the 

[110] 



, LIGEIA 



majesty, the quiet ease, of her demeanor, or the incom- 
prehensible lightness and elasticity of her footfall. She 
came and departed as a shadow. I was never made aware 
of her entrance into my closed study, save by the dear 
music of her low sweet voice, as she placed her marble 
hand upon my shoulder. In beauty of face no maiden 
ever equaled her. It was the radiance of an opium- 
dream — an airy and spirit-lifting vision more wildly 
divine than the fantasies which hovered about the slum- 
bering souls of the daughters of Delos. Yet her features 
were not of that regular mold which we have been 
falsely taught to worship in the classical labors of the 
heathen. " There is no exquisite beauty/ ' says Bacon, 
Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all the forms and genera 
of beauty, " without some strangeness in the propor- 
tion.' ' Yet, although I saw that the features of Ligeia 
were not of a classic regularity — although I perceived 
that her loveliness was indeed " exquisite," and felt 
that there was much of " strangeness " pervading it, 
yet I have tried in vain to detect the irregularity and to 
trace home my own perception of " the strange." I 
examined the contour of the lofty and pale forehead: 
it was faultless — how cold indeed that word when 
applied to a majesty so divine ! — the skin rivaling the 
purest ivory, the commanding extent and repose, the gen- 
tle prominence of the regions above the temples ; and then 
the raven-black, the glossy, the luxuriant and naturally- 
curling tresses, setting forth the full force of the Homeric 
epithet, * l hyacinthine ! ' ' I looked at the delicate out- 
lines of the nose — and nowhere but in the graceful 
medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a similar per- 
fection. There were the same luxurious smoothness of 

[ill] 



THE SHORT STORY 



surface, the same scarcely perceptible tendency to the 
aquiline, the same harmoniously curved nostrils speaking 
the free spirit. I regarded the sweet mouth. Here was 
indeed the triumph of all things heavenly — the magnifi- 
cent turn of the short upper lip — the soft, voluptuous 
slumber of the under — the dimples which sported, and 
the color which spoke — the teeth glancing back, with a 
brilliancy almost startling, every ray of the holy light 
which fell upon them in her serene and placid, yet most 
exultingly radiant of all smiles. I scrutinized the forma- 
tion of the chin : and here, too, I found the gentleness of 
breadth, the softness and the majesty, the fulness and 
spirituality, of the Greek — the contour which the god 
Apollo revealed but in a dream to Cleomenes, the son of 
the Athenian. And then I peered into the large eyes of 
Ligeia. 

For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique. 
It might have been, too, that in these eyes of my beloved 
lay the secret to which Lord Verulam alludes. They 
were, I must believe, far larger than the ordinary eyes 
of our own race. They were even fuller than the fullest 
of the gazelle eyes of the tribe of the valley of Nour- 
jahad. Yet it was only at intervals — in moments of 
intense excitement — that this peculiarity became more 
than slightly noticeable in Ligeia. And at such moments 
was her beauty — in my heated fancy thus it appeared 
perhaps — the beauty of beings either above or apart 
from the earth, the beauty of the fabulous Houri of the 
Turk. The hue of the orbs was the most brilliant of 
black, and, far over them hung jetty lashes of great 
length. The brows, slightly irregular in outline, had the 
same tint. The " strangeness," however, which I found 

[ 112 ] 



LIGEIA 



in the eyes, was of a nature distinct from the formation, 
or the color, or the brilliancy of the features, and must, 
after all, be referred to the expression. Ah, word of no 
meaning! behind whose vast latitude of mere sound we 
intrench our ignorance of so much of the spiritual. The 
expression of the eyes of Ligeia! How for long hours 
have I pondered upon it! How have I, through the 
whole of a midsummer night, struggled to fathom it! 
What was it — that something more profound than the 
well of Democritus — which lay far within the pupils of 
my beloved? What was it? I was possessed with a 
passion to discover. Those eyes ! those large, those shin- 
ing, those divine orbs ! they became to me twin stars of 
Leda, and I to them devoutest of astrologers. 

There is no point, among the many incomprehensible 
anomalies of the science of mind, more thrillingly excit- 
ing than the fact — never, I believe, noticed in the 
schools — that in our endeavors to recall to memory 
something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon 
the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in 
the end, to remember. And thus how frequently, in my 
intense scrutiny of Ligeia 's eyes, have I felt approaching 
the full knowledge of their expression — felt it approach- 
ing, yet not quite be mine, and so at length entirely 
depart! And (strange, oh, strangest mystery of all!) 
I found, in the commonest objects of the universe, a 
circle of analogies to that expression. I mean to say 
that, subsequently to the period when Ligeia 's beauty 
passed into my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, I 
derived, from many existences in the material world, a 
sentiment such as I felt always around, within me, by 
her large and luminous orbs. Yet not the more could 

[113] 



THE SHORT STORY 



I define that sentiment, or analyze, or even steadily view 
it. I recognized it, let me repeat, sometimes in the sur- 
vey of a rapidly-growing vine — in the contemplation of 
a moth, a butterfly, a chrysalis, a stream of running 
water. I have felt it in the ocean; in the falling of a 
meteor. I have felt it in the glances of unusually aged 
people. And there are one or two stars in the heavens 
(one especially, a star of the sixth magnitude, double 
and changeable, to be found near the large star in Lyra) , 
in a telescopic scrutiny of which I have been made aware 
of the feeling. I have been filled with it by certain 
sounds from stringed instruments, and not unfrequently 
by passages from books. Among innumerable other 
instances, I well remember something in a volume of 
Joseph Glanvill, which (perhaps merely from its quaint- 
ness — who shall say?) never failed to inspire me with 
the sentiment : ' ' And the will therein lieth, which dieth 
not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its 
vigor ? For God is but a great will pervading all things 
by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself 
to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through 
the weakness of his feeble will." 

Length of years and subsequent reflection have 
enabled me to trace, indeed, some remote connection 
between this passage in the English moralist and a por- 
tion of the character of Ligeia. An intensity in thought, 
action, or speech, was possibly, in her, a result, or at 
least an index, of that gigantic volition which, during 
our long intercourse, failed to give other and more imme- 
diate evidence of its existence. Of all the women whom 
I have ever known, she, the outwardly calm, the ever- 
placid Ligeia, was the most violently a prey to the 

[114] 



LIGEIA 



tumultuous vultures of stern passion. And of such pas- 
sion I could form no estimate, save by the miraculous 
expansion of those eyes which at once so delighted and 
appalled me — by the almost magical melody, modula- 
tion, distinctness, and placidity of her very low voice — 
and by the fierce energy (rendered doubly effective by 
contrast with her manner of utterance) of the wild 
words which she habitually uttered. 

I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia: it was 
immense — such as I have never known in woman. In 
the classical tongues was she deeply proficient; and as 
far as my own acquaintance extended in regard to the 
modern dialects of Europe, I have never known her at 
fault. Indeed upon any theme of the most admired, 
because simply the most abstruse, of the boasted erudi- 
tion of the academy, have I ever found Ligeia at fault ? 
How singularly, how thrillingly, this one point in the 
nature of my wife has forced itself, at this late period 
only, upon my attention! I said her knowledge was 
such as I have never known in woman — but where 
breathes the man who has traversed, and successfully, all 
the wide areas of moral, physical, and mathematical 
science? I saw not then what I now clearly perceive, 
that the acquisitions of Ligeia were gigantic, were 
astounding; yet I was sufficiently aware of her infinite 
supremacy to resign myself, with a child-like confidence, 
to her guidance through the chaotic world of metaphys- 
ical investigation at which I was most busily occupied 
during the earlier years of our marriage. With how 
vast a triumph, with how vivid a delight, with how much 
of all that is ethereal in hope, did I feel, as she bent over 
me in studies but little sought — but less known, that 

[115] 



THE SHORT STORY 



delicious vista by slow degrees expanding before me, 
down whose long, gorgeous, and all untrodden path, I 
might at length pass onward to the goal of a wisdom too 
divinely precious not to be forbidden ! 

How poignant, then, must have been the grief with 
which, after some years, I beheld my well-grounded 
expectations take wings to themselves and fly away! 
Without Ligeia I was but as a child groping benighted. 
Her presence, her readings alone, rendered vividly 
luminous the many mysteries of the transcendentalism in 
which we were immersed. Wanting the radiant luster 
of her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, grew duller than 
Saturnian lead. And now those eyes shone less and less 
frequently upon the pages over which I pored. Ligeia 
grew ill. The wild eyes blazed with a too-too glorious 
effulgence; the pale fingers became of the transparent 
waxen hue of the grave; and the blue veins upon the 
lofty forehead swelled and sank impetuously with the 
tides of the most gentle emotion. I saw that she must 
die — and I struggled desperately in spirit with the grim 
Azrael. And the struggles of the passionate wife were, 
to my astonishment, even more energetic than my own. 
There had been much in her stern nature to impress me 
with the belief that, to her, death would have come with- 
out its terrors ; but not so. Words are impotent to con- 
vey any just idea of the fierceness of resistance with 
which she wrestled with the Shadow. I groaned in 
anguish at the pitiable spectacle. I would have soothed 
— I would have reasoned; but, in the intensity of her 
wild desire for life — for life — but for life — solace 
and reason were alike the uttermost of folly. Yet not 
until the last instance, amid the most convulsive writh- 

[116] 



LIGEIA 



ings of her fierce spirit, was shaken the external placid- 
ity of her demeanor. Her voice grew more gentle — 
grew more low — yet I would not wish to dwell upon 
the wild meaning of the quietly uttered words. My 
brain reeled as I hearkened, entranced, to a melody more 
than mortal — to assumptions and aspirations which 
mortality had never before known. 

That she loved me I should not have doubted; and I 
might have been easily aware that, in a bosom such as 
hers, love would have reigned no ordinary passion. But 
in death only was I fully impressed with the strength of 
her affection. For long hours, detaining my hand, would 
she pour out before me the overflowing of a heart whose 
more than passionate devotion amounted to idolatry. 
How had I deserved to be so blessed by such confessions? 
how had I deserved to be so cursed with the removal of 
my beloved in the hour of her making them ? But upon 
this subject I cannot bear to dilate. Let me say only, 
that in Ligeia's more than womanly abandonment to a 
love, alas! all unmerited, all unworthily bestowed, I at 
length recognized the principle of her longing, with so 
wildly earnest a desire, for the life which was now fleeing 
so rapidly away. It is this wild longing, it is this eager 
vehemence of desire for life — but for life, that I have 
no power to portray, no utterance capable of expressing. 

At high noon of the night in which she departed, beck- 
oning me peremptorily to her side, she bade me repeat 
certain verses composed by herself not many days before. 
I obeyed her. They were these : 
Lo! 't is a gala night 

Within the lonesome latter years. 
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 
In veils, and drowned in tears, 

[117] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Sit in a theater to see 

A play of hopes and fears, 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully 

The music of the spheres. 

Mimes, in the form of God on high, 

Mutter and mumble low, 
And hither and thither fly; 

Mere puppets they, who come and go 
At bidding of vast formless things 

That shift the scenery to and fro, 
Flapping from out their condor wings 

Invisible Woe. 

That motley drama — oh, be sure 

It shall not be forgot! 
With its Phantom chased for evermore, 

By a crowd that seize it not, 
Through a circle that ever returneth in 

To the self-same spot; 
And much of Madness, and more of Sin, 

And Horror the soul of the plot. 

But see, amid the mimic rout 

A crawling shape intrude: 
A blood-red thing that writhes from out 

The scenic solitude! 
It writhes — it writhes! with mortal pangs 

The mimes become its food, 
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs 

In human gore imbued. 

Out — out are the lights — out all! 

And over each quivering form 
The curtain, a funeral pall, 

Comes down with the rush of a storm, 
While the angels, all pallid and wan, 

Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
That the play is the tragedy, " Man," 

And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. 

[118] 



LIGEIA 



" God! " half shrieked Ligeia, leaping to her feet 
and extending her arms aloft with a spasmodic move- 
ment, as I made an end of these lines — "0 God ! 
Divine Father ! — shall these things be undeviatingly 
so ? shall this conqueror be not once conquered ? Are we 
not part and parcel in Thee ? Who — who knoweth the 
mysteries of the will with its vigor? ' Man doth not 
yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only 
through the weakness of his feeble will. ' ' ' 

And now, as if exhausted with emotion, she suffered 
her white arms to fall, and returned solemnly to her bed 
of death. And as she breathed her last sighs, there came 
mingled with them a low murmur from her lips. I bent 
to them my ear, and distinguished, again, the concluding 
words of the passage in Glanvill : ' ' Man doth not yield 
himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only 
through the weakness of his feeble will." 

She died : and I, crushed into the very dust with sor- 
row, could no longer endure the lonely desolation of my 
dwelling in the dim and decaying city by the Rhine. I 
had no lack of what the world calls wealth. Ligeia had 
brought me far more, very far more, than ordinarily 
falls to the lot of mortals. After a few months, there- 
fore, of weary and aimless wandering, I purchased, and 
put in some repair, an abbey, which I shall not name, 
in one of the wildest and least frequented portions of 
fair England. The gloomy and dreary grandeur of the 
building, the almost savage aspect of the domain, the 
many melancholy and time-honored memories connected 
with both, had much in unison with the feelings of utter 
abandonment which had driven me into that remote and 
unsocial region of the country. Yet although the exter- 

[119] 



THE SHORT STORY 



nal abbey, with its verdant decay banging about it, suf- 
fered but little alteration, I gave way with a child-like 
perversity, and perchance with a faint hope of alleviat- 
ing my sorrows, to a display of more than regal mag- 
nificence within. For such follies, even in childhood, I 
had imbibed a taste, and now they came back to me as if 
in the dotage of grief. Alas, I feel how much even of 
incipient madness might have been discovered in the 
gorgeous and fantastic draperies, in the solemn carvings 
of Egypt, in the wild cornices and furniture, in the 
Bedlam patterns of the carpets of tufted gold! I had 
become a bounden slave in the trammels of opium, and 
my labors and my orders had taken a coloring from my 
dreams. But these absurdities I must not pause to 
detail. Let me speak only of that one chamber ever 
accursed, whither, in a moment of mental alienation, I 
led from the altar as my bride — as the successor of the 
unf orgotten Ligeia — ■ the fair-haired and blue-eyed Lady 
Rowena Trevanion, of Tremaine. 

There is no individual portion of the architecture and 
decoration of that bridal chamber which is not now 
visibly before me. Where were the souls of the haughty 
family of the bride, when, through thirst of gold, they 
permitted to pass the threshold of an apartment so 
bedecked, a maiden and a daughter so beloved? I have 
said that I minutely remember the details of the cham- 
ber — yet I am sadly forgetful on topics of deep moment ; 
and here there was no system, no keeping, in the fan- 
tastic display, to take hold upon the memory. The room 
lay in a high turret of the castellated abbey, was pentag- 
onal in shape, and of capacious size. Occupying the 
whole southern face of the pentagon was the sole win- 

[120] 



LIGEIA 

dow — an immense sheet of unbroken glass from Venice 
— a single pane, and tinted of a leaden hue, so that the 
rays of either the sun or moon, passing through it, fell 
with a ghastly luster on the objects within. Over the 
upper portion of this huge window extended the trellis- 
work of an aged vine, which clambered up the massy 
walls of the turret. The ceiling, of gloomy-looking oak, 
was excessively lofty, vaulted, and elaborately fretted 
with the wildest and most grotesque specimens of a semi- 
Gothic, semi-Druidical device. From out the most cen- 
tral recess of this melancholy vaulting depended, by a 
single chain of gold with long links a huge censer of the 
same metal, Saracenic in pattern, and with many per- 
forations so contrived that there writhed in and out of 
them, as if endued with a serpent vitality, a continual 
succession of parti-colored fires. 

Some few ottomans and golden candelabra, of Eastern 
figure, were in various stations about ; and there was the 
couch, too — the bridal couch — of an Indian model, and 
low, and sculptured of solid ebony, with a pall-like 
canopy above. In each of the angles of the chamber 
stood on end a gigantic sarcophagus of black granite, 
from the tombs of the kings over against Luxor, with 
their aged lids full of immemorial sculpture. But in 
the draping of the apartment lay, alas ! the chief fantasy 
of all. The lofty walls, gigantic in height, even unpro- 
portionably so, were hung from summit to foot, in vast 
folds, with a heavy and massive-looking tapestry — 
tapestry of a material which was found alike as a carpet 
on the floor, as a covering for the ottomans and -the 
ebony bed, as a canopy for the bed, and as the gorgeous 
volutes of the curtains which partially shaded the win- 

[ 121 ] 



THE SHORT STORY 



dow. The material was the richest cloth of gold. It was 
spotted all over, at irregular intervals, with arabesque 
figures, about a foot in diameter, and wrought upon the 
cloth in patterns of the most jetty black. But these 
figures partook of the true character of the arabesque 
only when regarded from a single point of view. By a 
contrivance now common, and indeed traceable to a very 
remote period of antiquity, they were made changeable 
in aspect. To one entering the room, they bore the 
appearance of simple monstrosities; but upon a farther 
advance, this appearance gradually departed; and, step 
by step, as the visitor moved his station in the chamber, 
he saw himself surrounded by an endless succession of 
the ghastly forms which belong to the superstition of 
the Norman, or arise in the guilty slumbers of the monk. 
The phantasmagoric effect was vastly heightened by the 
artificial introduction of a strong continual current of 
wind behind the draperies, giving a hideous and uneasy 
animation to the whole. 

In halls such as these, in a bridal chamber such as this, 
I passed, with the Lady of Tremaine, . the unhallowed 
hours of the first month of our marriage — passed them 
with but little disquietude. That my wife dreaded the 
fierce moodiness of my temper — that she shunned me, 
and loved me but little — I could not help perceiving; 
but it gave me rather pleasure than otherwise. I loathed 
her with a hatred belonging more to a demon than to 
man. My memory flew back (oh, with what intensity of 
regret ! ) to Ligeia, the beloved, the august, the beautiful, 
the entombed. I reveled in recollections of her purity, 
of her wisdom, of her lofty, her ethereal nature, of her 
passionate, her idolatrous love. Now, then, did my 

[122] 



LIGEIA 

spirit fully and freely burn with more than all the fires 
of her own. In the excitement of my opium dreams 
(for I was habitually fettered in the shackles of the 
drug), I would call aloud upon her name, during the 
silence of the night, or among the sheltered recesses of 
the glens by day, as if, through the wild eagerness, the 
solemn passion, the consuming ardor of my longing for 
the departed, I could restore her to the pathway she had 
abandoned — ah, could it be forever ? — upon the earth. 
About the commencement of the second month of the 
marriage, the Lady Rowena was attacked with sudden 
illness, from which her recovery was slow. The fever 
which consumed her, rendered her nights uneasy; and 
in her perturbed state of half-slumber, she spoke of 
sounds, and of motions, in and about the chamber of the 
turret, which I concluded had no origin save in the dis- 
temper of her fancy, or perhaps in the phantasmagoric 
influences of the chamber itself. She became at length 
convalescent — finally, well. Yet but a brief period 
elapsed, ere a second more violent disorder again threw 
her upon a bed of suffering; and from this attack her 
frame, at all times feeble, never altogether recovered. 
Her illnesses were, after this epoch, of alarming charac- 
ter, and of more alarming recurrence, defying alike the 
knowledge and the great exertions of her physicians. 
With the increase of the chronic disease, which had thus 
apparently taken too sure hold upon her constitution to 
be eradicated by human means, I could not fail to observe 
a similar increase in the nervous irritation of her tem- 
perament, and in her excitability by trivial causes of 
fear. She spoke again, and now more frequently and 
pertinaciously, of the sounds — of the slight sounds — 

[123] 



THE SHORT STORY 



and of the unusual motions among the tapestries, to 
which- she had formerly alluded. 

One night, near the closing in of September, she 
pressed this distressing subject with more than usual 
emphasis upon my attention. She had just awakened 
from an unquiet slumber, and I had been watching, with 
feelings half of anxiety, half of vague terror, the work- 
ings of her emaciated countenance. I sat by the side of 
her ebony bed, upon one of the ottomans of India. She 
partly arose, and spoke, in an earnest low whisper, of 
sounds which she then heard, but which I could not 
hear — of motions which she then saw, but which I could 
not perceive. The wind was rushing hurriedly behind 
the tapestries, and I wished to show her (what, let me 
confess it, I could not all believe) that those almost 
inarticulate breathings, and those very gentle variations 
of the figures upon the wall, were but the natural effects 
of that customary rushing of the wind. But a deadly 
pallor, overspreading her face, had proved to me that 
my exertions to reassure her would be fruitless. She 
appeared to be fainting, and no attendants were within 
call. I remembered where was deposited a decanter of 
light wine which had been ordered by her physicians, 
and hastened across the chamber to procure it. But, as 
I stepped beneath the light of the censer, two circum- 
stances of a startling nature attracted my attention. I 
had felt that some palpable although invisible object had 
passed lightly by my person; and I saw that there lay 
upon the golden carpet, in the very middle of the rich 
luster thrown from the censer, a shadow of a shade. But 
I was wild with the excitement of an immoderate dose 
of opium, and heeded these things but little, nor spoke 

[124] 



LIGEIA 

of them to Rowena. Having found the wine, I recrossed 
the chamber, and poured out a gobletful, which I held 
to the lips of the fainting lady. She had now partially 
recovered, however, and took the vessel herself, while I 
sank upon an ottoman near me, with my eyes fastened 
upon her person. It was then that I became distinctly 
aware of a gentle footfall upon the carpet, and near the 
couch ; and in a second thereafter, as Rowena was in the 
act of raising the wine to her lips, I saw, or may have 
dreamed that I saw, fall within the goblet as if from 
some invisible spring in the atmosphere of the room, 
three or four large drops of a brilliant and ruby-colored 
fluid. If this I saw — not so Rowena. She swallowed 
the wine unhesitatingly, and I forbore to speak to her 
of a circumstance which must after all, I considered, 
have been but the suggestion of a vivid imagination, 
rendered morbidly active by the terror of the lady, by 
the opium, and by the hour. 

Yet I cannot conceal it from my own perception that, 
immediately subsequent to the fall of the ruby-drops, 
a rapid change for the worse took place in the disorder 
of my wife ; so that, on the third subsequent night, the 
hands of her menials prepared her for the tomb, and on 
the fourth, I sat alone, with her shrouded body, in that 
fantastic chamber which had received her as my bride. 
Wild visions, opium-engendered, flitted shadow-like 
before me. I gazed with unquiet eye upon the sar- 
cophagi in the angles of the room, upon the varying 
figures of the drapery, and upon the writhing of the 
parti-colored fires in the censer overhead. My eyes then 
fell, as I called to mind the circumstances of a former 
night, to the spot beneath the glare of the censer where 

[125] 



THE SHORT STORY 



I had seen the faint traces of the shadow. It was there, 
however, no longer ; and breathing with greater freedom, 
I turned my glances to the pallid and rigid figure upon 
the bed. Then rushed upon me a thousand memories 
of Ligeia — and then came back upon my heart, with 
the turbulent violence of a flood, the whole of that unut- 
terable woe with which I had regarded her thus 
enshrouded. The night waned; and still, with a bosom 
full of bitter thoughts of the one only and supremely 
beloved, I remained gazing upon the body of Rowena. 

It might have been midnight, or perhaps earlier, or 
later, for I had taken no note of time, when a sob, low, 
gentle, but very distinct, startled me from my revery. 
I. felt that it came from the bed of ebony — the bed of 
death. I listened in an agony of superstitious terror — 
but there was no repetition of the sound. I strained my 
vision to detect any motion in the corpse — but there 
was not the slightest perceptible. Yet I could not have 
been deceived. I had heard the noise, however faint, 
and my soul was awakened within me. I resolutely and 
perseveringly kept my attention riveted upon the body. 
Many minutes elapsed before any circumstance occurred 
tending to throw light upon the mystery. 'At length it 
became evident that a slight, a very feeble, and barely 
noticeable tinge of color had flushed up within the cheeks, 
and along the sunken small veins of the eyelids. 
Through a species of unutterable horror and awe, for 
which the language of mortality has no sufficiently ener- 
getic expression, I felt my heart cease to beat, my limbs 
grow rigid where I sat. Yet a sense of duty finally 
operated to restore my self-possession. I could no longer 
doubt that we had been precipitate in our preparations — 

[ 126 ] 



LIGEIA 

that Rowena still lived. It was necessary that some 
immediate exertion be made; yet the turret was alto- 
gether apart from the portion of the abbey tenanted by 
the servants — there were none within call — I had no 
means of summoning them to my aid without leaving 
the room for many minutes — and this I could not ven- 
ture to do. I therefore struggled alone in my endeavors 
to call back the spirit still hovering. In a short period 
it was certain, however, that a relapse had taken place ; 
the color disappeared from both eyelid and cheek, leav- 
ing a wanness even more than that of marble; the lips 
became doubly shriveled and pinched up in the ghastly 
expression of death; a repulsive clamminess and cold- 
ness overspread rapidly the surface of the body ; and all 
the usual rigorous stiffness immediately supervened. I 
fell back with a shudder upon the couch from which I 
had been so startlingly aroused, and again gave myself 
up to passionate waking visions of Ligeia. 

An hour thus elapsed, when (could it be possible?) I 
was a second time aware of some vague sound issuing 
from the region of the bed. I listened — in extremity 
of horror. The sound came again — it was a sigh. Rush- 
ing to the corpse, I saw — distinctly saw — a tremor 
upon the lips. In a minute afterwards they relaxed, 
disclosing a bright line of the pearly teeth. Amazement 
now struggled in my bosom with the profound awe which 
had hitherto reigned there alone. I felt that my vision 
grew dim, that my reason wandered ; and it was only by 
a violent effort that I at length succeeded in nerving 
myself to the task which duty thus once more had 
pointed out. There was now a partial glow upon the 
forehead and upon the cheek and throat; a perceptible 

[127] 



THE SHORT STORY 



warmth pervaded the whole frame; there was even a 
slight pulsation at the heart. The lady lived ; and with 
redoubled ardor I betook myself to the task of restora- 
tion. I chafed and bathed the temples and the hands, 
and used every exertion which experience, and no little 
medical reading, could suggest. But in vain. Suddenly, 
the color fled, the pulsation ceased, the lips resumed the 
expression of the dead, and, in an instant afterward, the 
whole body took upon itself the icy chilliness, the livid 
hue, the intense rigidity, the sunken outline, and all the 
loathsome peculiarities of that which has been, for many 
days, a tenant of the tomb. 

And again I sunk into visions of Ligeia — and again 
(what marvel that I shudder while I write ?) , again there 
reached my ears a low sob from the region of the ebony 
bed. But why shall I minutely detail the unspeakable 
horrors of that night ? Why shall I pause to relate how, 
time after time, until near the period of the gray dawn, 
this hideous drama of revivification was repeated; how 
each terrific relapse was only into a sterner and appar- 
ently more irredeemable death; how each agony wore 
the aspect of a struggle with some invisible foe ; and how 
each struggle was succeeded by I know not what of wild 
change in the personal appearance of the corpse? Let 
me hurry to a conclusion. 

The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, 
and she who had been dead once again stirred — and now 
more vigorously than hitherto, although arousing from 
a dissolution more appalling in its utter helplessness 
than any. I had long ceased to struggle or to move, and 
remained sitting rigidly upon the ottoman, a helpless 
prey to a whirl of violent emotions, of which extreme 

[128] 



LIGEIA 

awe was perhaps the least terrible, the least consuming. 
The corpse, I repeat, stirred, and now more vigorously 
than before. The hues of life flushed up with unwonted 
energy into the countenance — the limbs relaxed — and, 
save that the eyelids were yet pressed heavily together, 
and that the bandages and draperies of the grave still 
imparted their charnel character to the figure, I might 
have dreamed that Rowena had indeed shaken off, utterly, 
the fetters of Death. But if this idea was not, even 
then, altogether adopted, I could at least doubt no 
longer, when arising from the bed, tottering, with feeble 
steps, with closed eyes, and with the manner of one bewil- 
dered in a dream, the thing that was enshrouded 
advanced bodily and palpably into the middle of the 
apartment. 

I trembled not — I stirred not — for a crowd of unut- 
terable fancies connected with the air, the stature, the 
demeanor of the figure, rushing hurriedly through my 
brain, had paralyzed — had chilled me into stone. I 
stirred not — but gazed upon the apparition. There was 
a mad disorder in my thoughts — a tumult unappeas- 
able. Could it, indeed, be the living Rowena who con- 
fronted me? Could it indeed be Rowena at all — the 
fair-haired, the blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion of 
Tremaine ? Why, why should I doubt it ? The bandage 
lay heavily about the mouth — but then might it not be 
the mouth of the breathing Lady of Tremaine? And 
the cheeks — there were the roses as in her noon of life 
— yes, these might indeed be the fair cheeks of the living 
Lady of Tremaine. And the chin, with its dimples, as in 
health, might it not be hers? but has she then grown 
taller since her malady? What inexpressible madness 

[129] 



THE SHORT STORY 



seized me with that thought? One bound, and I had 
reached her feet ! Shrinking from my touch, she let fall 
from her head the ghastly cerements which had confined 
it, and there streamed forth, into the rushing atmos- 
phere of the chamber, huge masses of long disheveled 
hair; it was blacker than the wings of the midnight! 
And now slowly opened the eyes of the figure which stood 
before me. " Here then, at least," I shrieked aloud, 
' ' can I never — can I never be mistaken — these are the 
full, and the black, and the wild eyes — of my lost love — 
of the Lady — of the LADY LIGEIA. ' ' 



For a very careful analysis of this story and its use 
as an illustration of the structure of the modern Short 
Story, read Chapter xi, pp. 188-196, of Clayton Ham- 
ilton's The Materials and Methods -of Fiction. 

Look for the theme in this (which Poe repeats so 
insistently that you cannot miss it) and then examine 
the setting, plot, characters, incidents, etc., to see how 
he has embodied the theme in the narrative. 

REFERENCES 

Brownell, W. C. American Prose Masters. Charles 

Scribner's Sons. 
Stevenson, R. L. Essays and Reviews, "The Works of 

Edgar Allan Poe." 



[130] 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT* 
By Nathaniel Hawthorne 

Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) is one of the best known 
of American prose writers. Although occasionally before his 
time a writer like William Austin or James Hogg or Wash- 
ington Irving met most of the technical requirements of the 
short story, it was Poe and Hawthorne who became conscious 
of the artistic elements of that form of fiction, and practiced 
the art systematically. Hawthorne was born at Salem, 
Massachusetts, and educated at Bowdoin College, graduating 
in 1825. From 1838 to 1841 he was employed in the Boston 
Custom House. In 1841 he joined the famous Brook Farm 
Association. From 1846 to 1849 he was again in the govern- 
ment civil service, being surveyor of the port of Salem. He 
served later, from 1853 to 1857, as consul to Liverpool, 
returning to the United States in 1861 after a residence in 
England and visits to Italy and other continental countries. 

His chief works and the dates of publication are as follows: 
Twice Told Tales (1837 and 1842), Mosses from an Old Manse 
(1846), The Scarlet Letter (1850), The House of the Seven 
Gables (1851), The Snow Image and Other Twice Told Tales 
(1852), and The Marble Faun (1860). He died at Plymouth, 
New Hampshire. 

That very singular man, old Doctor Heidegger, once 
invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study. 
There were three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Med- 
bourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a 
withered gentlewoman whose name was the Widow 

* Reprinted from The Complete Works of Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne, with the consent of the publishers, Houghton Mifflin 
Company. 

[131] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures, 
who had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest 
misfortune it was that they were not long ago in their 
graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had 
been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a 
frantic speculation, and was little better than a men- 
dicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years, 
and his health and substance in the pursuit of sinful 
pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of pains, 
such as the gout and divers other torments of soul and 
body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man of 
evil fame, or at least had been so, till time had buried 
him from the knowledge of the present generation, and 
made him obscure instead of infamous. As for the 
Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a 
great beauty in her day ; but, for a long while past, she 
had lived in deep seclusion, on account of certain scan- 
dalous stories which had prejudiced the gentry of the 
town against her. It is a circumstance worth mention- 
ing that each of these three old gentlemen, Mr. Med- 
bourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early 
lovers of the Widow Wycherly, and had once been on 
the point of cutting each other's throats for her sake. 
And, before proceeding further, I will merely hint that 
Doctor Heidegger and all his four guests were sometimes 
thought to be a little beside themselves ; as is not unf re- 
quently the case with old people, when worried either by 
present troubles or woful recollections. 

" My dear friends," said Doctor Heidegger, motion- 
ing them to be seated, ' ' I am desirous of your assistance 
in one of those little experiments with which I amuse 
myself here in my study. ' ' 

[132] i 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 

If all stories were true, Doctor Heidegger's study 
must have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old- 
fashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs and besprin- 
kled with antique dust. Around the walls stood several 
oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled 
with rows of gigantic folios and black-letter quartos, and 
the upper with little parchment-covered duodecimos. 
Over the central bookcase was a bronze bust of Hippoc- 
rates, with which, according to some authorities, Doctor 
Heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations in all 
difficult cases of his practice. In the obscurest corner 
of the room stood a tall and narrow oaken closet, with 
its door ajar, within which doubtfully appeared a skele- 
ton. Between two of the bookcases hung a looking- 
glass, presenting its high and dusty plate within a 
tarnished gilt frame. Among many wonderful stories 
related of this mirror, it was fabled that the spirits of 
all the doctor 's deceased patients dwelt within its verge, 
and would stare him in the face whenever he looked 
thitherward. The opposite side of the chamber was orna- 
mented with the full-length portrait of a young lady, 
arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, satin, and bro- 
cade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above 
half a century ago Doctor Heidegger had been on the 
point of marriage with this young lady; but, being 
affected with some slight disorder, she had swallowed 
one of her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal 
evening. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to 
be mentioned; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound 
in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There were 
no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the title of 
the book. But it was well known to be a book of magic ; 

[133] 



THE SHORT STORY 



and once, when a chambermaid had lifted it, merely to 
brush away the dust, the skeleton had rattled in its 
closet, the picture of the young lady had stepped one 
foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had peeped 
forth from the mirror, while the brazen head of Hippoc- 
rates had frowned, and said, ' ' Forbear ! ' ' 

Such was Doctor Heidegger's study. On the summer 
afternoon of our tale a small round table, as black as 
ebony, stood in the center of the room, sustaining a cut- 
glass vase of beautiful form and workmanship. The 
sunshine came through the window, between the heavy 
festoons of two faded damask curtains, and fell directly 
across this vase; so that a mild splendor was reflected 
from it on the ashen visages of the five old people who 
sat around. Four champagne glasses were also on the 
table. 

" My dear old friends," repeated Doctor Heidegger, 
" may I reckon on your aid in performing an exceed- 
ingly curious experiment? " 

Now Doctor Heidegger was a very strange old gentle- 
man, whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a 
thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to my 
shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back to 
mine own veracious self; and if any passages of the 
present tale should startle the reader's faith, I must be 
content to bear the stigma of a fiction-monger. 

When the doctor's guests heard him talk of his pro- 
posed experiment, they anticipated nothing more won- 
derful than the murder of a mouse in an air-pump or 
the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or some 
similar nonsense, with which he was constantly in the 
habit of pestering his intimates. But without waiting 

[134] 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 

for a reply, Doctor Heidegger hobbled across the cham- 
ber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, bound 
in black leather, which common report affirmed to be a 
book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he opened the 
volume, and took from among its black-letter pages a 
rose, or what was once a rose, though now the green 
leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, 
and the ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust 
in the doctor 's hands. 

" This rose," said Doctor Heidegger, with a sigh, 
" this same withered and crumbling flower, blossomed 
five and fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia 
Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder, and I meant to 
wear it in my bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty 
years it has been treasured between the leaves of this 
old volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this 
rose of half a century could ever bloom again ? ' ' 

1 ' Nonsense ! ' ' said the Widow Wycherly, with a 
peevish toss of her head. " You might as well ask 
whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever bloom 
again. ' ' 

1 ' See ! ' ' answered Doctor Heidegger. 

He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into 
the water which it contained. At first, it lay lightly on 
the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe none of its 
moisture. Soon, however, a singular change began to 
be visible. The crushed and dried petals stirred, and 
assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower 
were reviving from a deathlike slumber ; the slender stalk 
and twigs of foliage became green; and there was the 
rose of half a century, looking as fresh as when Sylvia 
Ward had first given it to her lover. It was scarcely 

[135] 



THE SHORT STORY 



full blown; for some of its delicate red leaves curled 
modestly around its moist bosom, within which two or 
three dewdrops were sparkling. 

' ' That is certainly a very pretty deception, ' ' said the 
doctor's friends; carelessly, however, for they had wit- 
nessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show; il pray, 
how was it effected? " 

" Did you never hear of the Fountain of Youth? " 
asked Doctor Heidegger, " which Ponce de Leon, the 
Spanish adventurer, went in search of, two or three 
centuries ago? " 

" But did Ponce de Leon ever find it? " said the 
Widow Wycherly. 

" No/' answered Doctor Heidegger, " for he never 
sought it in the right place. The famous Fountain of 
Youth, if I am rightly informed, is situated in the 
southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from 
Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several 
gigantic magnolias, which, though numberless centuries 
old, have been kept as fresh as violets, by the virtues 
of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of mine, 
knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what 
you see in the vase." 

" Ahem! " said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not 
a word of the doctor's story; " and what may be the 
effect of this fluid on the human frame ? ' ' 

" You shall judge for yourself, my dear Colonel," 
replied Doctor Heidegger; " and all of you, my 
respected friends, are welcome to so much of this admir- 
able fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For 
my own part, having had much trouble in growing old, 
I am in no hurry to grow young again. With your per- 

[136] 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 

mission, therefore, I will merely watch the progress of 
the experiment." 

While he spoke, Doctor Heidegger had been filling the 
four champagne glasses with the water of the Fountain 
of Youth. It was apparently impregnated with an effer- 
vescent gas, for little bubbles were continually ascending 
from the depths of the glasses, and bursting in silvery 
spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused a pleasant 
perfume, the old people doubted not that it possessed 
cordial and comfortable properties; and though utter 
sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, they were inclined 
to swallow it at once. But Doctor Heidegger besought 
them to stay a moment. 

" Before you drink, my respectable old friends," said 
he, " it would be well that, with the experience of a life- 
time to direct you, you should draw up a few general 
rules for your guidance, in passing a second time through 
the perils of youth. Think what a sin and shame it 
would be if, with your peculiar advantages, you should 
not become patterns of virtue and wisdom to all the 
young people of the age ! ' ' 

The doctor's four venerable friends made him no 
answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh ; so very 
ridiculous was the idea that, knowing how closely repent- 
ance treads behind the steps of error, they should ever 
go astray again. 

" Drink, then," said the doctor, bowing: " I rejoice 
that I have so well selected the subjects of my experi- 
ment. ' ' 

With palsied hands they raised the glasses to their 
lips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as 
Doctor Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been 

[137] 



THE SHORT STORY 



bestowed on four human beings who needed it more 
wofully. They looked as if they had never known 
what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring 
of nature's dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, sap- 
less, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round 
the doctor's table, without life enough in their souls or 
bodies to be animated even by the prospect of growing 
young again. They drank off the water, and replaced 
their glasses on the table. 

Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement 
in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might have 
been produced by a glass of generous wine, together 
with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine, brightening 
over all their visages at once. There was a healthful 
suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the ashen hue that 
had made them look so corpselike. They gazed at one 
another, and fancied that some magic power had really 
begun to smooth away the deep and sad inscriptions 
which Father Time had been so long engraving on their 
brow. The Widow Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she 
felt almost like a woman again. 

1 i Give us more of this wondrous water ! ' ' cried they, 
eagerly. ' ' We are younger — but we are still too old ! 
Quick — give us more ! ' ' 

' ' Patience ! patience ! ' ' quoth Doctor Heidegger, who 
sat watching the experiment with philosophic coolness. 
" You have been a long time growing old. Surely you 
might be content to grow young in half an hour! But 
the water is at your service. ' ' 

Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, 
enough of which still remained in the vase to turn half 
the old people in the city to the age of their own grand- 

[138] 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 

children. While the bubbles were yet sparkling on the 
brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their glasses 
from the table, and swallowed the contents at a single 
gulp. Was it delusion? Even while the draught was 
passing down their throats, it seemed to have wrought a 
change on their whole systems. Their eyes grew clear 
and bright; a dark shade deepened among their silvery 
locks; they sat round the table, three gentlemen of 
middle age, and a woman hardly beyond her buxom 
prime. 

' ' My dear widow, you are charming ! ' ' cried Colonel 
Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face, 
while the shadows of age were flitting from it like dark- 
ness from the crimson daybreak. 

The fair widow knew of old that Colonel Killigrew 's 
compliments were not always measured by sober truth; 
so she started up and ran to the mirror, still dreading 
that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet her 
gaze. Meanwhile the three gentlemen behaved in such a 
manner as proved that the water of the Fountain of 
Youth possessed some intoxicating qualities, unless, in- 
deed, their exhilaration of spirits were merely a light- 
some dizziness, caused by the sudden removal of the 
weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne 's mind seemed to run on 
political topics, but whether relating to the past, present, 
or future could not easily be determined, since the same 
ideas and phrases have been in vogue these fifty years. 
Now he rattled forth full-throated sentences about 
patriotism, national glory, and the people 's rights ; now 
he muttered some perilous stuff or other, in a sly and 
doubtful whisper, so cautiously that even his own con- 
science could scarcely catch the secret; and now, again, 

[139] 



THE SHORT STORY 



he spoke in measured accents and a deeply deferential 
tone, as if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned 
periods. Colonel Killigrew all this time had been trolling 
forth a jolly bottle song, and ringing his glass in sym- 
phony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward 
the buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the 
other side of the table Mr. Medbourne was involved in 
a calculation of dollars and cents, with which was 
strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East 
Indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the 
polar icebergs. 

As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the 
mirror, courtesying and simpering to her own image, 
and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better than 
all the world beside. She thrust her face close to the 
glass to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or 
crow 's-f oot had indeed vanished. She examined whether 
the snow had so entirely melted from her hair that the 
venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. At last, 
turning briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing 
step to the table. 

11 My dear old doctor," cried she, " pray favor me 
with another glass ! ' ' 

' ' Certainly, my dear madam, certainly ! ' ' replied the 
complaisant doctor. ' ' See ! I have already filled the 
glasses. ' ' , 

There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this 
wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as it 
effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous 
glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset that 
the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild 
and moonlike splendor gleamed from within the vase, 

[140] 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 

and rested alike on the four guests, and on the doctor's 
venerable figure. He sat in a high-backed, elaborately 
carved oaken chair, with a gray dignity of aspect that 
might have well befitted that very Father Time, whose 
power had never been disputed, save by this fortunate 
company. Even while quaffing the third draught of the 
Fountain of Youth, they were almost awed by the expres- 
sion of his mysterious visage. 

But the next moment the exhilarating gush of young 
life shot through their veins. They were now in the 
happy prime of youth. Age, with its miserable train of 
cares, and sorrows, and diseases, was remembered only 
as the trouble of a dream, from which they had joyously 
awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost, and 
without which the world's successive scenes had been 
but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw its enchant- 
ment over all their prospects. They felt like new-created 
beings in a new-created universe. 

1 ' We are young ! We are young ! ' ' they cried, exult- 
ingly. 

Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the 
strongly marked characteristics of middle life, and 
mutually assimilated them all. They were a group of 
merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant 
frolicsomeness of their years. The most singular effect 
of their gayety was an impulse to mock the infirmity 
and decreptitude of which they had so lately been the 
victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned 
attire — the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats 
of the young men, and the ancient cap and gown of the 
blooming girl. One limped across the floor like a gouty 
grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride of his 

[141] 



THE SHORT STORY 



nose, and pretended to pore over the black-letter pages 
of the book of magic ; a third seated himself in an arm- 
chair, and strove to imitate the venerable dignity of 
Doctor Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and 
leaped about the room. The Widow "Wycherly — if so 
fresh a damsel could be called a widow — tripped up to 
the doctor's chair with a mischievous merriment in her 
rosy face. 

" Doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, " get up and 
dance with me! " And then the four young people 
laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure 
the poor old doctor would cut. 

1 ' Pray excuse me, ' ' answered the doctor, quietly. ' ' I 
am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over 
long ago. But either of these gay young gentlemen will 
be glad of so pretty a partner. ' ' 

' ' Dance with me, Clara ! ' ' cried Colonel Killigrew. 

" No, no, I will be her partner! " shouted Mr. 
Gascoigne. 

" She promised me her hand fifty years ago! " ex- 
claimed Mr. Medbourne. 

They all gathered round her. One caught both her 
hands in his passionate grasp — another threw his arm 
about her waist — the third buried his hand among the 
curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap. Blushing, 
panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath 
fanning each of their faces by turns, she strove to dis- 
engage herself, yet still remained in their triple embrace. 
Never was there a livelier picture of youthful rivalship, 
with bewitching beauty for the prize. Yet, by a strange 
deception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber and the 
antique dresses which they still wore, the tall mirror is 

[142] 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 

said to have reflected the figures of the three old, gray, 
withered grandsires, ridiculously contending for the 
skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam. 

But they were young: their burning passions proved 
them so. Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the 
girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite withheld her 
favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening 
glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they grap- 
pled fiercely at one another 's throats. As they struggled 
to and fro, the table was overturned, and the vase dashed 
into a thousand fragments. The precious Water of 
Youth flowed in a bright stream across the floor, moisten- 
ing the wings of a butterfly, which, grown old in the 
decline of summer, had alighted there to die. The insect 
fluttered lightly through the chamber, and settled on 
the snowy head of Doctor Heidegger. 

' ' Come, come, gentlemen ! — come, Madame Wycher- 
ly! " exclaimed the doctor, " I really must protest 
against this riot. ' ' 

They stood still and shivered ; for it seemed as if gray 
Time were calling them back from their sunny youth, 
far down into the chill and darksome vale of years. They 
looked at old Doctor Heidegger, who sat in his carved 
arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century which 
he had rescued from among the fragments of "the 
shattered vase. At the motion of his hand the rioters 
resumed their seats, the more readily because their 
violent exertions had wearied them, youthful though 
they were. 

" My poor Sylvia's rose! " ejaculated Doctor Heideg- 
ger, holding it in the light of the sunset clouds; " it 
appears to be fading again. ' ' 

[143] 



THE SHORT STORY 



And so it was. Even while the party were looking at 
it the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became as 
dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it 
into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moisture 
which clung to its petals. 

" I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness, " 
observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered 
lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down from 
the doctor 's snowy head, and fell upon the floor. 

His guests shivered again. A strange chillness, 
whether of the body or spirit they could not tell, was 
creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at one 
another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched 
away a charm, and left a deepening furrow where none 
had been before. "Was it an illusion? Had the changes 
of a lifetime been crowded into so brief a space, and 
were they now four aged people, sitting with their old 
friend, Doctor Heidegger ? 

' ' Are we grown old again so soon ? ' ' cried they, dole- 
fully. 

In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed 
merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The 
delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes, 
they were old again ! With a shuddering impulse, that 
showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny 
hands over her face, and wished that the coffin lid were 
over it, since it could be no longer beautiful. 

' ' Yes, friends, ye are old again, ' ' said Doctor Heideg- 
ger ; ' ' and lo ! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the 
ground. Well, I bemoan it not; for if the fountain 
gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe 
my lips in it — no, though its delirium were for years 

[144] 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 



instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have taught 

me!" 

But the doctor's four friends had taught no such 

lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to make 
| a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, noon, and 
i night, from the Fountain of Youth. 

STUDY NOTES 

The theme of this story might be stated thus: Haw- 
i thorne wrote Dr. Heidegger's Experiment to show that 
| life's failures are caused by some inherent imperfection 
' in the nature of the individual, and that the same mis- 
' takes would probably be made again if one had the 
opportunity to live life over. 

Is it really true that the larger mistakes in life are 
not due to a lack of foresight, of knowledge of things to 
come, but to some fundamental defect in character? 
' And would we, if we had a chance to live our lives over 
again, learning nothing from first experiences, fall into 
the same follies as before? Try in a single phrase to 
sum up for each of the four people the fundamental 
weakness of character that apparently caused the failure 
in his or her career. 

Taking this story as a typical example of the technic 
of the short story of seventy-five years ago, compare it 
in detail with a story of twenty-five or thirty years ago, 
such as Stevenson's Will o' the Mill. 



[145] 



THE NECKLACE * 
By Guy De Maupassant 

She was one of those pretty and charming girls who 
are sometimes, as if by a mistake of destiny, born in a 
family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, 
no means of being known, understood, loved, wedded, by 
any rich and distinguished man, and so she let herself be 
married to a petty clerk at the Ministry of Public 
Instruction. 

She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, 
but she was as unhappy as though she had really fallen 
from her proper station; since with women there is 
neither caste nor rank; and beauty, grace, and charm 
act instead of family and birth. Natural fineness, in- 
stinct for what is elegant, suppleness of wit, are the 
sole hierarchy, and make from women of the people the 
equals of the very greatest ladies. 

She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all 
the delicacies and all the luxuries. She suffered from 
the poverty of her dwelling, from the wretched look of 
the walls, from the worn-out chairs, from the ugliness 
of the curtains. All those things of which another 
woman of her rank would never even have been con- 
scious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of 
the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework 
aroused in her regrets which were despairing and dis- 

* Reprinted from Little French Masterpieces, with the per- 
mission of the publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons. 

[146] 



THE NECKLACE 



traded dreams. She thought of the silent antechambers 
hung with Oriental tapestry, lit by tall bronze candel- 
abra, and of the two great footmen in knee-breeches who 
sleep in the big arm-chairs, made drowsy by the heavy 
warmth of the furnace. She thought of the long salons 
fitted up with ancient silk, of the delicate furniture 
carrying priceless curiosities, and of the coquettish per- 
fumed boudoirs made for talks at five o'clock with inti- 
mate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom 
all women envy, and whose attention they all desire. 

"When she sat down to dinner before the round table 
covered with a tablecloth three days old, opposite her 
husband, who uncovered the soup-tureen and declared 
with an enchanted air, " Ah, the delicious stew! I 
don't know anything better than that," she thought of 
dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry which 
peopled the walls with ancient personages and with 
strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest; and 
she thought of delicious dishes served on marvelous 
plates, and of the whispered gallantries which you listen 
to with a sphinx-like smile, while you are eating the 
pink flesh of a trout or the wings of a quail. 

She had no dresses, no jewels, nothing. And she loved 
nothing but that ; she felt made for that. She would so 
have liked to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be 
sought after. 

She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, 
who was rich and whom she did not like to go and see any 
more, because she suffered so much when she came back. 

But, one evening, her husband returned home with a 
triumphant air, and holding a large envelope in his 
hand. 

[147] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" There," said he, " there is something for you." 
She tore the paper sharply, and drew out a printed 
card which bore these words : 

The Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. Georges 
Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Mme. Loisel's com- 
pany at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, Janu- 
ary 18th. 

Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she 
threw the invitation on the table with disdain, mur- 
muring : 

' ' What do you want me to do with that ? ' ' 
" But, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You 
never go out, and this is such a fine opportunity. I 
had awful trouble to get it. Every one wants to go; 
it is very select, and they are not giving many invitations 
to clerks. The whole official world will be there." 

She looked at him with an irritated eye, and she said, 
impatiently : 

1 1 And what do you want me to put on my back ? ' ' 
He had not thought of that ; he stammered 
11 Why, the dress you go to the theater in. It looks 
very well to me. " 

He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was crying. 
Two great tears descended slowly from the corners of 
her eyes towards the corners of her mouth. He stut- 
tered : 

' ' What 's the matter ? What 's the matter ? ' ' 
But by a violent effort she had conquered her grief, 
and she replied, with a calm voice, while she wiped her 
wet cheeks: 

" Nothing. Only I have no dress, and therefore I 

[148] 



THE NECKLACE 



can't go to this ball. Give your card to some colleague 
whose wife is better equipped than I." 

He was in despair. He resumed : 

" Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it 
cost, a suitable dress which you could use on other 
occasions, something very simple ? ' ' 

She reflected several seconds, making her calculations 
and wondering also what sum she could ask without 
drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened 
exclamation from the economical clerk. 

Finally she replied, hesitatingly : 

" I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage it 
with four hundred francs. ' ' 

He had grown a little pale, because he was laying aside 
just that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a 
little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, 
with several friends who went to shoot larks down there, 
of a Sunday. 

But he said: 

" All right. I will give you four hundred francs. 
And try to have a pretty dress. ' ' 

The day of the ball drew near, and Mme. Loisel seemed 
sad, uneasy, anxious. Her dress was ready, however. 
Her husband said to her one evening: 

" What is the matter? Come, you've been so queer 
these last three days." 

And she answered: 

" It annoys me not to have a single jewel, not a single 
stone, nothing to put on. I shall look like distress. I 
should almost rather not go at all. ' ' 

He resumed : 

[149] 



THE SHORT STORY 



* ' You might wear natural flowers. It 's very stylish at 
this time of the year. For ten francs you can get two 
or three magnificent roses. ' ' 

She was not convinced. 

" No; there's nothing more humiliating than to look 
poor among other women who are rich. ' ' 

But her husband cried : 

" How stupid you are ! Go look up your friend Mme. 
Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You're 
quite thick enough with her to do that." 

She uttered a cry of joy. 

I * It 's true. I never thought of it. ' ' 

The next day she went to her friend and told of her 
distress. 

Mme. Forestier went to a wardrobe with a glass door, 
took out a large jewel-box, brought it back, opened it, 
and said to Mme. Loisel : 

" Choose, my dear." 

She saw first of all some bracelets, then a pearl neck- 
lace, then a Venetian cross, gold and precious stones of 
admirable workmanship. She tried on the ornaments 
before the glass, hesitated, could not make up her mind 
to part with them, to give them back. She kept asking : 

' ' Haven 't you any more ? ' ' 

I I "Why, yes. Look. I don 't know what you like. ' ' 
All of a sudden she discovered, in a black satin box, 

a superb necklace of diamonds; and her heart began to 
beat with an immoderate desire. Her hands trembled 
as she took it. She fastened it around her throat, out- 
side her high-necked dress, and remained lost in ecstasy 
at the sight of herself. 

Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anguish : 
[150] 



THE NECKLACE 



" Can you lend me that, only that? " 
" Why, yes, certainly." 

She sprang upon the neck of her friend, kissed her 
passionately, then fled with her treasure. 

The day of the ball arrived. Mme. Loisel made a great 
success. She was prettier than them all, elegant, 
gracious, smiling, and crazy with joy. All the men 
looked at her, asked her name, endeavored to be intro- 
duced. All the attaches of the Cabinet wanted to waltz 
with her. She was remarked by the Minister himself. 

She danced with intoxication, with passion, made 
drunk by pleasure, forgetting all in the triumph of her 
beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of 
happiness composed of all this homage, of all this admira- 
tion, of all these awakened desires, and of that sense of 
complete victory which is so sweet to a woman's heart. 

She went away about four o'clock in the morning. 
Her husband had been sleeping since midnight, in a 
little deserted anteroom, with three other gentlemen 
whose wives were having a very good time. 

He threw over her shoulders the wraps which he had 
brought, modest wraps of common life, whose poverty 
contrasted with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt 
this, and wanted to escape so as not to be remarked by 
the other women who were enveloping themselves in 
costly furs. 

Loisel held her back. 

" "Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will go 
and call a cab." 

But she did not listen to him, and rapidly descended 
the stairs. When they were in the street, they did not 

[151] 



THE SHORT STORY 

; 

find a carriage ; and they began to look for one, shouting 
after the cabmen whom they saw passing by at a distance. 

They went down towards the Seine, in despair, shiver- 
ing with cold. At last they found on the quay one of 
those ancient noctambulant coupes which, exactly as if ; 
they were ashamed to show their misery during the 
day, are never seen 'round Paris until after nightfall. 

It took them to their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and 
once more, sadly, they climbed up homeward. All was 
ended for her. And as to him, he reflected that he must 
be at the Ministry at ten o'clock. 

She removed the wraps, which covered her shoulders, 
before the glass, so as once more to see herself in all 
her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She had no 
longer the necklace around her neck ! 

Her husband, already half undressed, demanded : 

" What is the matter with you? " 

She turned madly towards him. 

' ■ I have — I have — I 've lost Mme. Forestier 's neck- 
lace." 

He stood up, distracted. 

< ' What ! How ? Impossible ! ' ' 

And they looked in the folds of her dress, in the folds 
of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere. They did not 
find it. 

He asked : 

1 ' You 're sure you had it on when you left the ball ? ' ' 

' ' Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the palace. ' ' 

" But if you had lost it in the street we should have 
heard it fall. It must be in the cab." 

Yes. Probably. Did you take his number ? ' ' 
No. And you, didn 't you notice it ? " 

[152] 



a 



r 



THE NECKLACE 



"No." 

They looked, thunderstruck, at one another. At last 
Loisel put on his clothes. 

" I shall go back on foot," said he, " over the whole 
route which we have taken, to see if I can 't find it. ' ' 

And he went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her 
ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, 
without fire, without a thought. 

Her husband came back about seven o'clock. He had 
found nothing. 

He went to Police Headquarters, to the newspaper 
offices, to offer a reward ; he went to the cab companies — 
everywhere, in fact, whither he. was urged by the least 
suspicion of hope. 

She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear 
before this terrible calamity. 

Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face^ he 
had discovered nothing. 

' ' You must write to your friend, ' ' said he, ' ' that you 
have broken the clasp of her necklace, and that you are 
having it mended. That will give us time to turn 
around. ' ' 

She wrote at his dictation. 

At the end of a week they had lost all hope. 

And Loisel, who had aged five years, declared : 

* l We must consider how to replace that ornament. ' ' 

The next day they took the box which had contained 

it, and they went to the jeweler whose name was found 

within. He consulted his books. 

" It was not I, Madame, who sold that necklace; I 

must simply have furnished the case." 

[153] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for 
a necklace like the other, consulting their memories, sick, 
both of them, with chagrin and with anguish. 

They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of 
diamonds which seemed to them exactly like the one they 
looked for. It was worth forty thousand francs. They 
could have it for thirty-six. 

So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days 
yet. And they made a bargain that he should buy it 
back for thirty-four thousand francs, in case they found 
the other one before the end of February. 

Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his 
father had left him. He would borrow the rest. 

He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five 
hundred francs of another, five louis here, three louis 
there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt 
with usurers, and all the race of lenders. He compro- 
mised all the rest of his life, risked his signature without 
even knowing if he could meet it ; and, frightened by the 
pains yet to come, by the black misery which was about 
to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical 
privations and of all the moral tortures which he was 
to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, putting down 
upon the merchant's counter thirty-six thousand francs. 

When Mme. Loisel took back the necklace, Mme. 
Forestier said to her, with a chilly manner : 

" You should have returned it sooner. I might have 
needed it." 

She did not open the case, as her friend had so much 
feared. If she had detected the substitution, what would 
she have thought, what would she have said? Would 
she not have taken Mme. Loisel for a thief? 

[154] 



THE NECKLACE 



Mme. Loisel now knew the horrible existence of the 
needy. She took her part, moreover, all on a sudden, 
with heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. She 
would pay it. They dismissed their servant; they 
changed their lodgings; they rented a garret under the 
roof. 

She came to know what heavy housework meant and 
the odious cares of the kitchen. She washed the dishes, 
using her rosy nails on the greasy pots and pans. She 
washed the dirty linen, the shirts, and the dish cloths, 
which she dried upon a ropej she carried the slops down 
to the street every morning, and carried up the water, 
stopping for breath at every landing. And, dressed 
like a woman of the people, she went to the fruiterer, 
the grocer, the butcher, her basket on her arm, bargain- 
ing, insulted, defending her miserable money sou by 
sou. 

Each month they had to meet some notes, renew 
others, obtain more time. 

Her husband worked in the evening making a fair 
copy of some tradesman's accounts, and late at night he 
often copied manuscript for five sous a page. 

And this life lasted ten years. 

At the^ end of ten years they had paid everything, 
everything, with the rates of usury, and the accumula- 
tions of the compound interest. 

Mme. Loisel looked old now. She had become the 
woman of impoverished households — strong and hard 
and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew, and red 
hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with 
great swishes of water. But sometimes, when her hus- 
band was at the office, she sat down near the window, 

[155] 



THE SHORT STORY 



and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of that 
ball where she had been so beautiful and so feted. 

What would have happened if she had not lost that 
necklace ? Who knows ? who knows ? How life is strange 
and changeful! How little a thing is needed for us to 
be lost or to be saved ! 

But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the 
Champs Elysees to refresh herself from the labors of the 
week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was leading 
a child. It was Mme. Forestier, still young, still beauti- 
ful, still charming. 

Mme. Loisel felt moved. Was she going to speak to 
her*? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she 
was going to tell her all about it. Why not ? 

She went up. 

" Good-day, Jeanne.' ' 

The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by 
this plain goodwife, did not recognize her at all, and 
stammered : 

1 ■ But — Madame ! — I do not know — You must have 
mistaken. ' ' 

"No. I amMathilde Loisel." 

Her friend uttered a cry. 

1 ' Oh, my poor Mathilde ! How you are changed ! " 

' ' Yes, I have had days hard enough since I have seen 
you, days wretched enough — and that because of you ! " 

"Of me! How so?" 

1 ' Do you remember that diamond necklace which you 
lent me to wear at the ministerial ball? " 

"Yes. Well?" 

"Well, I lost it." 

[156] 



THE NECKLACE 



' ' What do you mean ? You brought it back. ' ' 

" I brought you back another just like it. And for 
this we have been ten years paying. You can understand 
that it was not easy for us, us who had nothing. At 
last it is ended, and I am very glad. ' ' 

Mme. Forestier had stopped. 

" You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds 
to replace mine ? ' ' 

" Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very 
like." 

And she smiled with a joy which was proud and naive 
at once. 

Mme. Forestier, deeply moved, took her two hands. 

' ' Oh, my poor Mathilde !•• Why, my necklace was 
paste. It was worth at most five hundred francs ! "J ^ 

> ?' * 

STUDY NOTES 

It has been said that Maupassant wrote this story to 
show how apparent calamity is often really a blessing 
in disguise. Those who say this think that Mathilde was 
a failure until she was forced to do hard work to help 
repay the debt contracted as a result of her foolishness. 
Do you think this was the author's view of her char- 
acter ? 

Find in the story reason to accept or reject the follow- 
ing line as the theme : ' ' What a little thing it takes 
to make you or to lose you ! ' ' 



[157] 



THREE ARSHINS OF LAND * 

By Lyof N. Tolstoi 

Count Lyof Nikolai evich Tolstoi (1828-1911) was one of 
the greatest men of the nineteenth century. He is well known 
the world over as social reformer, religious mystic, and 
novelist. He was born in the province of Tula, Russia, 
educated at the University of Kazan and served as a young 
soldier in the Caucasus and in the Crimean Wars. After the 
liberation of the Russian serfs he retired to his estates in 
Southern Russia and there lived among the peasants as a 
friend and helper. In his old age he wrote little stories 
dealing with peasant problems and had them printed and 
distributed without copyright and at a very small cost. The 
story Three Arshins of Land or How Much Land Does a Man 
Need? is one of these stories. Where Love Is, There God Is 
Also is another. 

Among his best known novels may be mentioned War and 
Pence (1865-68), a novel of Russian life from 1805 to 1815; 
Anna Karenina (1875-78), Ivan Ilyitch (1886); The Kreutzer 
Sonata (1890); and. Resurrection (1900). 

Pakhom's neighbor was a lady who owned a little 
estate. She had one hundred and twenty dessyatins.t 
For a long time she had never harmed the peasants in 
any way, living in peace with them. But lately she had 
installed a retired soldier as superintendent, and he wor- 
ried the peasants with fines. No matter how careful 

* Reprinted from Current Opinion, with the consent of 
the editor and of the translator, Archibald J. Wolfe, 
f Properly, 2.7 acres. 

[158] 



THREE ARSHINS OF LAND 



Pakhom was, a horse would invade his neighbor's oat- 
field, or his cow would stray into her garden or the calves 
into the pasture. There was a fine for everything. 

Pakhom paid, growled, beat his family, and in the 
course of the summer laid up much sin upon his soul 
because of the superintendent. He found relief only by 
keeping his cattle in the yard. He begrudged the fodder, 
but he was thus spared much anxiety. 

In the winter the rumor spread that his neighbor meant 
to dispose of her land and that the superintendent 
thought of buying it. "When the peasants heard this 
they were greatly troubled. 

If the superintendent becomes the master, they judged, 
there will be no end to the fines. 

They importuned the lady to sell the land to the com- 
munity and not to the superintendent. As they prom- 
ised to pay her more than the latter, she agreed. The 
peasants held a meeting, then met again, but came to 
no understanding. The Devil sowed dissensions. Finally 
they decided that each should buy land according to his 
means, and the owner consented again. 

When Pakhom heard that a neighboring peasant had 
bought twenty dessyatins of the land, with time exten- 
sion to pay one-half of the purchase price, he became 
envious. " They'll sell the whole land, and I'll go empty- 
handed.' ' He consulted with his wife. " The peasants 
are buying land. "We must get ten dessyatins, ' ' he said. 
They considered how to arrange the matter. 

They had saved a hundred rubles. They sold a foal, 
one-half of their beehives, hired the son out as a laborer, 
and thus succeeded in scraping one-half of the money 
together. 

[159] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Pakhom looked over a tract of land of fifteen dessya- 
tins, with a grove, and negotiated with his neighbor. He 
contracted for the fifteen dessyatins and paid his earnest 
money. Then they drove to the city and made out the 
deed. He paid one-half of the money and agreed to 
pay the rest in two years. Pakhom now had land. 

He borrowed money from his brother-in-law, bought 
seed and sowed the purchased land. Everything came 
up beautifully. Inside of a year he was able to pay off 
his debts to the neighbor and to his brother-in-law. 
Pakhom was now a landowner in his own right. He 
cultivated his own ground, and cut his own pasturage. 
He was overjoyed. The grass had another look ; different 
kinds of flowers seemed to bloom on it. Once upon 
a time this land had looked to him the same as any 
other, but now it was a specially blessed piece of God's 
earth. 

Pakhom was enjoying life. Everything would be well 
now if the peasants only left his fields alone, if they did 
not let their cattle graze on his meadows. He admon- 
ished them in a friendly fashion. But they did not 
desist from driving their cows on his land, and at night 
the strangers' horses invaded his grain. Pakhom chased 
them and for a time did not lay it up against the 
peasants. Finally, however, he lost patience and made 
a complaint to the court. He knew very well, tho, that 
necessity forced the peasants to do this, not love of 
wrongdoing. Still, he thought, he would have to teach 
them a lesson, or they would graze his land bare. A 
good lesson might be useful. 

"With the help of the court he taught them more than 
one lesson; more than one peasant was fined. And so 

[160] 



THREE ARSHINS OF LAND 



it happened that the peasants were in no amiable mood 
towards him and were eager to play tricks on him. He 
was soon at loggerheads with all his neighbors. His 
land had grown, but the confines of the community 
seemed all too narrow now. 

One day, as he was seated at home, a traveling peasant 
asked for a lodging. Pakhom kept him over night, gave 
him plenty of meat and drink, inquired where he came 
from and talked of this and that. The peasant related 
that he was on the way from the lower Volga region, 
where he had been working. Many peasants had settled 
there. They were received into the community and ten 
dessyatins were allotted to each. Beautiful land! It 
made the heart feel glad to see it full of sheaves. A 
peasant had come there naked and poor, with empty 
hands, and now he had fifty dessyatins under wheat. 
Last year he sold his one crop of wheat for five thousand 
rubles. 

Pakhom listened with delight. He thought: why 
plague oneself in this crowded section, if one can live 
fine elsewhere? I will sell my land and property and 
from the proceeds I will buy land on the lower Yolga 
and start a farm. Here in this crowded corner there 
is nothing but quarreling. I will go and look things 
over for myself. 

When summer came he started on his journey. He 

went by boat to Samara on the Volga, then four thousand 

versts on foot. When he arrived at his journey's end 

he found things even as they had been reported to him. 

! Ten dessyatins were allotted to each person, and the 

| mujiks were glad to receive the stranger into the com- 

! munity. If a man brought money with him he was 

[161] 



THE SHORT STORY 



welcome and could buy as much land as he pleased. 
Three rubles a dessyatin was the price for the best land. 

When Pakhom had investigated everything, he re- 
turned home, sold his land at a profit, sold his homestead 
and cattle, took leave from his community, and, when 
the spring came around, he journeyed with his family 
to the new lands. 

When he reached his destination with his family, Pak- 
hom settled in a large village and registered in the com- 
munity. Having treated the elders, he received his 
papers in good order. He had been taken into the com- 
munity, and, in addition to the pasturage, land for five 
souls — fifty dessyatins in all — were allotted to him. 
He built a homestead and bought cattle. His allotment 
was twice as large as his former holdings. And what 
fertile land! He had enough of everything and could 
keep as many head of cattle as he wished. 

In the beginning, while he was building and equipping 
his homestead, he was well satisfied. But after he had 
lived there a while he began to feel that the new lands 
were too narrow. The first year Pakhom sowed wheat 
on his allotted land. It came up bountifully, and this 
created a desire to have more land at his disposal. He 
drove over to the merchant and leased some land for a 
year. The seed yielded a plentiful harvest. Unfortu- 
nately the fields were quite far from the village and the 
gathered grain had to be carted for a distance of fifteen 
versts. He saw peasant traders in the neighborhood 
owning dairies and amassing wealth. How much better 
were it, thought Pakhom, to buy land instead of leasing 
it, and to start dairying. That would give me a well- 
rounded property, all in one hand. 

[162] 



THREE ARSHINS OF LAND 



Then he came across a peasant who owned five hundred 
dessyatins of land, but found himself ruined and was 
eager to dispose of his property at a low figure. They 
closed a deal. Pakhom was to pay fifteen hundred rubles, 
one-half down, one-half later. 

About this time a traveling merchant stopped at Pak- 
hom 's farm to feed his horses. They drank tea and 
spoke of this and that. The merchant told him that he 
was on his way home from the land of the Bashkirs. 
He had bought land there, about five thousand dessyatins, 
and had paid one thousand rubles for it. Pakhom made 
inquiries. The merchant willingly gave information. 

" Only one thing is needful," he explained, " and 
that is to do some favor to their Chief. I distributed 
raiment and rugs among them, which cost me a hundred 
rubles, and I divided a chest of tea between them, and 
whoever wanted it had his fill of vodka. I got the des- 
svatin land for twenty copeks. Here is the deed. The 
land along the river and even on the steppes is wheat- 
growing land. ' ' 

Pakhom made further inquiries. 

" You couldn't walk the land through in a year," 
reported the merchant. ' ' All this is Bashkir-land. The 
men are as simple as sheep; one could buy from them 
almost for nothing." 

And Pakhom thought : ' ' "Why should I buy for my 
thousand rubles five hundred dessyatins of land and 
hang a debt around my neck, while for the same amount 
I can acquire immeasurable property. ' ' 

Pakhom inquired the way to the land of the Bashkirs. 
As soon as he had seen the merchant off he made ready 
for the journey. He left the land and the homestead 

[163] 



THE SHORT STORY 



in his wife 's charge and took only one of his farmhands 
along. In a neighboring city they bought a chest of tea, 
other presents, and some vodka, as the merchant had 
instructed them. 

They rode and rode. They covered five hundred versts 
and on the seventh day they came into the land of the 
Bashkirs and found everything just as the merchant had 
described. On the riverside and in the steppes the Bash- 
kirs live in kibitkas. They do not plow. They eat no 
bread. Cows and horses graze on the steppes. Foals 
are tied behind the tents, and mares are taken to them 
twice daily. They make kumyss out of mare's milk, 
and the women shake the kumyss to make cheese. The 
men drink kumyss and tea, eat mutton, and play the 
flute all day long. They are all fat and merry, and idle 
the whole summer through. Ignorant folk, they cannot 
speak Eussian, but they were very friendly. 

When they caught sight of Pakhom, the Bashkirs left 
their tents and surrounded him. An interpreter was 
at hand, whom Pakhom informed that he had come to 
buy land. The Bashkirs showed their joy and led Pak- 
hom into their good tent. They bade him sit down on a 
fine rug, propped him up with downy cushions and 
treated him to tea and kumyss. They also slaughtered 
a sheep and offered him meat. Pakhom fetched from his 
tarantass the chest of tea and other presents and dis- 
tributed them among the Bashkirs. The Bashkirs were 
overjoyed. They talked and talked among themselves 
and finally they ordered the interpreter to speak. 

1 ' They want me to tell you, ' ' said the interpreter, 
1 ' that they have taken a liking to you. It is our custom 
to favor the guest in all possible ways and to return gifts 

[164] 



THREE ARSHINS OF LAND 



for gifts. You have given us presents, now tell us what 
do you like of what we have so that we may give you 
presents also." 

" Most of all I like land," replied Pakhom. " We're 
crowded where I am at home and everything is already 
under the plow. But you have good land and plenty 
of it. In all my born days I have never seen land like 
yours. ' ' 

The Bashkirs were now talking again, and all at once 
it looked as tho they were quarreling. Pakhom asked 
why they were quarreling. The interpreter replied : 

" Some of them think that the Chief should be con- 
sulted, and that no agreement ought to be made without 
him ; but the others say it can be done without the Chief 
just as well. ' ' 

While the Bashkirs were yet arguing, a man with a 
hat of fox fur entered the tent. Everybody stopped 
talking and they all rose. 

" This is the Chief." 

Pakhom immediately produced the best sleeping robe 
and five pounds of tea. The Chief accepted the presents 
and sat down in the place of honor. The Bashkirs spoke 
to him. He listened, smiled and addressed Pakhom in 
Russian. 

" Well," he said, " that can be done. Help yourself, 
wherever it suits you. There is plenty of land. ' ' 

1 ' How can I do this, tho, ' ' thought Pakhom. 1 1 Some 
official confirmation is necessary. Otherwise they say 
today, help yourself, but afterwards they may take it 
away again." And he said: 

" Thank you for these good words. You have plenty 
of land, and I need but little. Only I must know what 

[165] 



THE SHORT STORY 



land belongs to me. It must be measured and I need 
some sort of a confirmation. For God's will rules over 
life and death. You are good people and you give me 
the land; but it may happen that your children will 
take it away again.' ' 

The Chief laughed. " Surely this can be done," he 
agreed. " A confirmation so strong that it cannot be 
made stronger." 

Pakhom replied : "I heard that a merchant had been 
here among you. You sold him land and gave him a 
deed. I should like to have it the same way. ' 9 

The Chief immediately understood. " This too can 
be done, ' ' he exclaimed. ' ' We have a writer. "We will 
drive to the city and have the seals put on. ' ' 

1 1 We have but one price : one thousand rubles a day. ' ' 

Pakhom failed to comprehend what sort of measure 
a day would be. il How many dessyatins will that 
make? " 

" That we cannot figure out. For one day we sell 
you as much land as you can walk around in one day. 
The price of one day is one thousand rubles." 

Pakhom looked surprised. " One can walk around a 
lot of land in one day, ' ' he said. 

The Chief smiled. " Everything will be yours, 
but on one condition. If in the course of the day you do 
not return to the place you start from, your money is 
lost." 

' ' But how can it be noted how far I have gone ? ' ' 

11 We will stay right at the starting point. Our lads 
will ride behind you. Where you command they will 
drive in a stake. Then we shall mark furrows from 
stake to stake. Choose your circle to suit yourself, only 

[166] 



THREE ARSHINS OF LAND 



before sunset be back at the spot where you started from. 
All the land that you walk around shall be yours. ' ' 

Pakhom assented. It was decided to start early in 
the morning. They conversed for a while, drank kumyss 
and tea and ate more mutton. When the night set in 
Pakhom retired to sleep and the Bashkirs dispersed. In 
the morning they were to meet again in order to journey 
to the starting point. 

Pakhom could not fall asleep. He had his mind on 
the land. What manner of things he thought of intro- 
ducing there ! ' * A whole principality I have before me ! 
I can easily make fifty versts in one day. The days are 
long now. Fifty versts encompass ten thousand des- 
syatins. I will have to knuckle down to no one. I'll 
plow as much as may suit me; the rest I'll use for a 
pasturage. ' ' 

The whole night through he was unable to close his 
eyes ; only towards morning he dozed restlessly. Hardly 
had he begun to doze when he saw a vision. He was 
lying, in his kibitka and heard laughter outside. To see 
who it was that laughed he stepped out of the kibitka 
and found the chief of the Bashkirs. He was holding 
his hands to his sides and fairly shaking with laughter. 
Pakhom approached him in his dream to find out why he 
was laughing, but now, instead of the Bashkir, he saw 
the merchant who had come to his farm and told him 
of this land. Just as he wanted to ask him how long 
he had been there, he saw that it was no longer the 
merchant but that mujik who had called on him at his 
old homestead and told him of the lower Volga region. 
And now again it was no longer the mujik but the Devil 
himself, with horns and hoofs, and he laughed and stared 

[167] 



THE SHORT STORY 



at one spot. What is he looking upon? wondered Pak- 
hom; why is he laughing? In his dream he saw a man 
lying outstretched, barefoot, clad only in a shirt and 
pair of trousers, with his face turned upward, white as 
a sheet. As he looked again to see what manner of man 
it was, he saw clearly that it was he himself. 

He awoke with the horror of it. What dreadful things 
one sees in a dream! He looked about. It was com- 
mencing to dawn. The people must be roused. It was 
time to journey to the starting place. 

Pakhom arose, waked his servant, who had been sleep- 
ing in the tarantass, harnessed the horses and went to 
wake the Bashkirs. 

' ' It is time, ' ' he said, ' ' to travel to the steppe. ' ' 

The Bashkirs got up, assembled, and the chief came 
among them. Again they drank tea and wanted to treat 
Pakhom, but he urged them to be off. 

" If we go, let it be done at once, ' ' he remarked. ' ' It 
is high time." 

The Bashkirs made ready, some of them on horseback, 
others in tarantasses. Pakhom, accompanied by his 
servant, drove in his own cart. They came to the steppe 
as the morning sun was beginning to crimson the sky, 
and driving over to a little hillock they gathered together. 
The chief came towards Pakhom and pointed with his 
hand to the steppes. 

* ( All this land that you see, ' ' he said, ' ' as far as your 
eye can reach, is ours. Choose to suit yourself. ' ' 

Pakhom 's eyes shone. In the distance he saw grass 
land, smooth as the palm of his hand, black as poppy 
seeds. In the deeper places the grass was growing 
shoulder high. 

[168] 



THREE ARSHINS OF LAND 



The chief took his fur cap and placed it in the middle 
of the hill. 

" This is the landmark. Here place your gold. Your 
servant will stay here. Go from this point hence and 
come back again. All the land which you encompass 
walking is yours. ' ' 

Pakhom took out the money and laid it on the cap. 
He took off his coat, keeping the vest on, took a bag of 
bread, tied a flat water bottle to his belt, pulled up his 
top boots and made ready to go. He hesitated for a 
while which direction to take. The view was everywhere 
enchanting. Finally he said to himself: " I'll go to- 
wards the rising of the sun." He faced the East and 
stretched himself waiting for the sun to appear above 
the horizon. There was no time to lose. It is better 
walking in the cool of the morning. The riders took up 
their positions behind him. As soon as the sun was 
visible, he set off, followed by the men on horseback. 

He walked neither briskly nor slowly. He had walked 
about a verst without stopping when he ordered a stake 
to be driven in. Once again in motion, he hastened his 
steps and soon ordered another stake to be put in. He 
looked back ; the hill was still to be seen with the people 
on it. Looking up at the sun he figured that he had 
walked about five versts. It had grown warm, so he doffed 
his vest. Five versts further the heat began to trouble 
him. Another glance at the sun showed him it was time 
for breakfast. " I have already covered a good stretch,' ' 
he thought. " Of course, there are four of these to be 
covered today, still it is too early to turn yet; but 111 
take my boots off. ' ' He sat down, took off his boots and 
went on. The walking was now easier. " I can go five 

[169] 



THE SHORT STORY 



versts more, ' ' he thought, ' ' and then turn to the left. ' ' 
The further he went, the more beautiful the land grew. 
He walked straight ahead. As he looked again, the hill 
was hardly to be seen and the people on it looked like 
ants. 

" Now it's time to turn back," he thought. " How 
hot I am! I feel like having a drink." He took his 
bottle with water and drank while walking. Then he 
made them drive in another stake and turned to the 
left. He walked and walked; the grass was high, the 
sun beat down with evergrowing fierceness. Weariness 
now set in. A glance at the sun showed him that it was 
midday. " I must rest," he thought. He stopped and 
ate a little bread. " If I sit down to eat, 1 11 fall asleep. ' ■ 
He stood for a while, caught his breath and walked on. 
For a time it was easy. The food had refreshed him and 
given him new strength. But it was too oppressively 
hot and sleep threatened to overcome him. He felt ex- 
hausted. " Well," he thought, " an hour of pain for 
an age of joy." 

In this second direction he walked nearly ten versts. 
He meant then to turn to the left, but lo! the section 
was so fine — a luxuriant dale. Pity to give it up! 
What a wonderful place for flax ! And again he walked 
straight on, appropriated the dale and marked the place 
with a stake. Now only he made his second turning. 
Casting his glance at the starting point he could hardly 
discern any people on the hill. " Must be about fifteen 
versts away. I have made the two sides too long and I 
must shorten the third. Though the property will turn 
out irregular in this way, what else can be done ? I must 
turn in and walk straight toward the hill. I must hasten 

[170] 



THREE ARSHINS OF LAND 



and guard against useless turns. I have plenty of land 
now." And he turned and walked straight toward the 
hill. 

Pakhom's feet ached. He had worked them almost 
to a standstill. His knees were giving way. He felt like 
taking a rest, but he dared not. He had no time; he 
must be back before sunset. The sun does not wait. He 
ran on as though someone were driving him. 

" Did I not make a mistake? Did I not try to grab 
too much? If I only get back in time! It is so far off, 
and I am all played out. If only all my trouble and 
labor be not in vain ! I must exert myself to the utmost. ' ' 

He shivered and ran onward in a trot. His feet were 
bleeding now. Still he ran. He cast off his vest, the 
boots, the bottle, the cap. ' ' I was too greedy ! I have 
ruined all! I can't get back by sunset! " 

It was getting worse all the time. Fear shortened his 
breath. He ran on. The shirt and trousers were sticking 
to his body, his mouth was all dried out, his bosom was 
heaving like the bellows in a forge, his heart was beating 
like a hammer, the knees felt as though they were 
another's and gave under him. 

He hardly thought of the land now ; he merely thought 
what to do so as not to die from exertion. Yes, he feared 
to die, but he could not stop. " I have run so much 
that if I stop now they will call me a fool." 

The Bashkirs, he could hear clearly, were screaming 
and calling. Their noise added fuel to his burning 
heart. With the last effort of his strength he ran. The 
sun was close to the horizon, but the hill was quite near 
now. The Bashkirs were beckoning, calling. He saw the 
fur cap, saw his money in it, saw the chief squatting on 

[171] 



THE SHORT STORY 



the ground with his hands at his stomach. He remem- 
bered his dream. ' ' Earth there is a-plenty, ' ' he thought, 
1 ' but will God let me live thereon ? Ah, I have destroyed 
myself. ' ' And still he kept on running. 

He looked at the sun. It was large and crimson, touch- 
ing the earth and beginning to sink. He reached the 
foot of the hill. The sun had gone down. A cry of woe 
escaped from his lips. He thought all was lost. But 
he remembered that the sun must yet be visible from a 
higher spot. He rushed up the hill. There was the cap. 
He stumbled and fell, but reached the cap with his 
hands. 

' ' Good lad ! ' ' exclaimed the chief. ' ' You have 
gained much land." 

As Pakhom 's servant rushed to his side and tried to 
lift him, blood was flowing from his mouth. He was 
dead. 

The servant lamented. 

The chief was still squatting on the ground, and now 
he began laughing loudly and holding his sides. Then 
he rose to his feet, threw a spade to the servant and said, 
" Here, dig! " 

The Bashkirs all clambered to their feet and drove 
away. The servant remained alone with the corpse. 

He dug a grave for Pakhom, the measure of his body 
from head to foot — three arshins # and no more. There 
he buried Pakhom. 



* An arshin is about two feet. 
[172] 



WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO * 

By Lyof N. Tolstoi 

In a certain city dwelt Martin Avdyeeich, the cobbler. 
He lived in a cellar, a wretched little hole with a 
single window. The window looked up towards the 
street, and through it Martin could just see the passers- 
by. It is true that he could see little more than their 
boots, but Martin Avdyeeich could read a man's charac- 
ter by his boots ; so he needed no more. Martin Avdye- 
eich had lived long in that one place, and had many 
acquaintances. Few indeed were the boots in that neigh- 
borhood which had not passed through his hands at some 
time or other. On some he would fasten new soles, to 
others he would give side-pieces, others again he would 
stitch all round, and even give them new uppers if need 
be. And often he saw his own handiwork through the 
window. There was always lots of work for him, for 
Avdyeeich 's hand was cunning and his leather good; 
nor did he overcharge, and always kept his word. He 
always engaged to do a job by a fixed time if he could ; 
but if he could not, he said so at once, and deceived no 
man. So every one knew Avdyeeich, and he had no 
lack of work. Avdyeeich had always been a pretty good 
man, but as he grew old he began to think more about 
his soul, and draw nearer to his God. While Martin 
was still a journeyman his wife had died; but his wife 

* Reprinted from The Outlook, with the consent of the 
editors. 

[173] 



THE SHORT STORY 



had left him a little boy — three years old. Their other 
children had not lived. All the eldest had died early. 
Martin wished at first to send his little child into the 
country to his sister, but afterwards he thought better 
of it. ' ' My Kapitoshka, ' ' thought he, ' ' will feel miser- 
able in a strange household. He shall stay here with 
me." And so Avdyeeich left his master, and took to 
living in lodgings alone with his little son. But God 
did not give Avdyeeich happiness in his children. No 
sooner had the little one begun to grow up and be a help 
and a joy to his father's heart, than a sickness fell upon 
Kapitoshka ; the little one took to his bed, lay there in a 
raging fever for a week, and then died. Martin buried 
his son in despair — so desperate was he that he began 
to murmur against God. Such disgust of life overcame 
him that he more than once begged God that he might 
die; and he reproached God for taking not him, an old 
man, but his darling, his only son, instead. And after 
that Avdyeeich left off going to church. 

And, lo! one day there came to Avdyeeich from the 
Troitsa Monastery an aged peasant-pilgrim — it was 
already the eighth year of his pilgrimage. Avdyeeich 
fell a-talking with him, and began to complain of his 
great sorrow. " As for living any longer, thou man of 
God," said he, "I desire it not. Would only that I 
might die ! That is my sole prayer to God. I am now a 
man who has no hope." 

And the old man said to him : ' ' Thy speech, Martin, 
is not good. How shall we judge the doings of God? 
God 's judgments are not our thoughts. God willed that 
thy son shouldst die, but that thou shouldst live. There- 
fore 'twas the best thing both for him and for thee. It 

[174] 



WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 

is because thou wouldst fain have lived for thy own 
delight that thou dost now despair. ' ' 

" But what then is a man to live for? " asked 
Avdyeeich. 

And the old man answered : ' ' For God, Martin ! He 
gave thee life, and for Him therefore must thou live. 
When thou dost begin to live for Him, thou wilt grieve 
about nothing more, and all things will come easy to 
thee." 

Martin was silent for a moment, and then he said : 
J ' And how must one live for God ? ' ' 

" Christ hath shown us the way. Thou knowest thy 
letters. Buy the Gospels and read ; there thou wilt find 
out how to live for God. There everything is explained. ' ' 

These words made the heart of Avdyeeich burn within 
him, and he went the same day and bought for himself 
a New Testament printed in very large type, and began 
to read. 

Avdyeeich set out with the determination to read it 
only on holidays; but as he read, it did his heart so 
much good that he took to reading it every day. And 
the second time he read until all the kerosene in the 
lamp had burnt itself out, and for all that he could not 
tear himself away from the book. And so it was every 
evening. And the more he read, the more clearly he 
understood what God wanted of him, and how it 
behooved him to live for God ; and his heart grew lighter 
and lighter continually. Formerly, whenever he lay 
down to sleep he would only sigh and groan, and think 
of nothing but Kapitoshka, but now he would only say 
to himself : ' ' Glory to Thee ! Glory to Thee, Lord ! 
Thy will be done! " 

[175] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Henceforth the whole life of Avdyeeich was changed. 
Formerly, whenever he had a holiday, he would go to 
the tavern to drink tea, nor would he say " no " to a 
drop of brandy now and again. He would tipple with 
his comrades, and though not actually drunk, would, for 
all that, leave the inn a bit merry, babbling nonsense and 
talking loudly and censoriously. He had done with all 
that now. His life became quiet and joyful. With the 
morning light he sat down to his work, worked out his 
time, then took down his lamp from the hook, placed it 
on the table, took down his book from the shelf, bent 
over it, and sat him down to read. And the more he 
read the more he understood, and his heart grew brighter 
and happier. 

It happened once that Martin was up reading till very 
late. He was reading St. Luke's Gospel. He was read- 
ing the sixth chapter, and as he read he came to the 
words: " And to him that smiteth thee on the one 
cheek, offer also the other.' ' This passage he read sev- 
eral times, and presently he came to that place where 
the Lord says : ' ' And why call ye me Lord, Lord, and 
do not the things which I say? Whosoever cometh to 
Me, and heareth My sayings, and doeth them, I will show 
you whom he is like. He is like a man which built an 
house, and dug deep, and laid the foundations on a rock. 
And when the flood arose, the storm beat vehemently 
upon that house, and could not shake it, for it was 
founded upon a rock. But he that heareth, and doeth 
not, is like a man that without a foundation built an 
house upon the sand, against which the storm did beat 
vehemently, and immediately it fell, and the ruin of that 
house was great." 

[176] 



WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 

Avdyeeich read these words through and through, and 
his heart was glad. He took off his glasses, laid them on 
the book, rested his elbow on the table, and fell a-think- 
ing. And he began to measure his own life by these 
words. And he thought to himself, " Is my house built 
on the rock or on the sand? How good to be as on a 
rock ! How easy it all seems to thee sitting alone here ! 
It seems as if thou wert doing God 's will to the full, and 
so thou takest no heed and fallest away again. And 
yet thou wouldst go on striving, for so it is good for 
thee. Lord, help me! " Thus thought he, and would 
have laid him down, but it was a grief to tear himself 
away from the book. And so he began reading the sev- 
enth chapter. He read all about the Centurion, he read 
all about the Widow 's Son, he read all about the answer 
to the disciples of St. John; and so he came to that 
place where the rich Pharisee invited our Lord to be his 
guest. And he read all about how the woman who was 
a sinner anointed His feet and washed them with her 
tears, and how He justified her. And so he came at last 
to the forty-fourth verse, and there he read these words, 
I " And He turned to the woman and said to Simon, Seest 
thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou 
gavest Me no water for My feet ; but she has washed My 
feet with tears and wiped them with the hairs of her 
head. Thou gavest Me no kiss, but this woman, since the 
time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss My feet. Mine 
head with oil thou didst not anoint.' ' And again 
Avdyeeich took off his glasses, and laid them on the 
book, and fell a-thinking. 

" So it is quite plain that I, too, have something of 
the Pharisee about me. Am I not always thinking of 

[177] 



THE SHORT STORY 



myself ? Am I not always thinking of drinking tea, and 
keeping myself as warm and cosy as possible, without 
thinking at all about the guest? Simon thought about 
himself, but did not give the slightest thought to his 
guest. But who was his guest? The Lord Himself. 
And suppose He were to come to me, should I treat Him 
as the Pharisee did? " 

And Avdyeeich leaned both his elbows on the table 
and, without perceiving it, fell a-dozing. 

' l Martin ! ' ' — it was as the voice of someone close 
to his ear. 

Martin started up from his nap. " "Who's there? M 

He turned round, he gazed at the door, but there was 
no one. Again he dozed off. Suddenly he heard quite 
plainly, 

" Martin, Martin, I say! Look tomorrow into the 
street. I am coming." 

Martin awoke, rose from his chair, and began to rub 
his eyes. And he did not know himself whether he had 
heard these words asleep or awake. He turned down 
the lamp and laid him down to rest. 

At dawn next day Avdyeeich arose, prayed to God, 
lit his stove, got ready his gruel and cabbage soup, filled 
his samovar, put on his apron, and sat him down by his 
window to work. There Avdyeeich sits and works, and 
thinks of nothing but the things of yesternight. His 
thoughts were divided. He thought at one time that he 
must have gone off dozing, and then again he thought 
he really must have heard that voice. It might have 
been so, thought he. 

Martin sits at the window and looks as much at his 
window as at his work, and whenever a strange pair of 

[178] 



WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 

boots passes by, he bends forward and looks out of the 
window, so as to see the face as well as the feet of the 
passers-by. The house porter passed by in new felt 
boots, the water-carrier passed by, and after that there 
passed close to the window an old soldier, one of Nicho- 
las's veterans, in tattered old boots, with a shovel in his 
hands. Avdyeeich knew him by his boots. The old fel- 
low was called Stepanuich, and lived with the neighbor- 
ing shopkeeper, who harbored him of his charity. His 
duty was to help the porter. Stepanuich stopped before 
Avdyeeich 's window to sweep away the snow. Avdyeeich 
cast a glance at him, and then went on working as 
before. 

"I'm not growing sager as I grow older,' ' thought 
Avdyeeich, with some self -contempt. " I make up my 
mind that Christ is coming to me, and, lo! 'tis only 
Stepanuich clearing away the snow. Thou simpleton, 
thou ! thou art wool-gathering ! ' ' Then Avdyeeich made 
ten more stitches, and then he stretched his head once 
more towards the window. He looked through the 
window again, and there he saw that Stepanuich had 
placed the shovel against the wall, and was warming 
himself and taking breath a bit. 

' ' The old man is very much broken, ' ' thought Avdye- 
eich to himself. " It is quite plain that he has scarcely 
strength enough to scrape away the snow. Suppose I 
make him drink a little tea ! the samovar, too, is just on 
the boil." Avdyeeich put down his awl, got up, placed 
the samovar on the table, put some tea in it, and tapped 
on the window with his fingers. Stepanuich turned 
round and came to the window. Avdyeeich beckoned to 
him, and then went and opened the door. 

[179] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" Come in and warm yourself a bit," cried he. 
" You're a bit chilled, eh? " 

" Christ requite you! Yes, and all my bones ache, 
too," said Stepanuich. Stepanuich came in, shook off 
the snow, and began to wipe his feet so as not to soil the 
floor, but he tottered sadly. 

" Don't trouble about wiping your feet. I'll rub 
it off myself. It's all in the day's work. Come in 
and sit down," said Avdyeeich. " Here, take a cup of 
tea." 

And Avdyeeich filled two cups, and gave one to his 
guest, and he poured his own tea out into the saucer 
and began to blow it. 

Stepanuich drank his cup, turned it upside down, put 
a gnawed crust on the top of it, and said, ' ' Thank you. ' ' 
But it was quite plain that he wanted to be asked to 
have some more. 

" Have a drop more. Do! " said Avdyeeich, and 
poured out fresh cups for his guest and himself, and as 
Avdyeeich drank his cup, he could not help glancing at 
the window from time to time. 

" Dost thou expect anyone? " asked his guest. 

"Do I expect anyone? Well, honestly, I hardly 
know. I am expecting, and I am not expecting, and 
there 's a word which has burnt itself right into my heart. 
"Whether it was a vision or no, I know not. Look now, 
my brother! I was reading yesterday about our little 
Father Christ, how He suffered, how He came on earth. 
Hast thou heard of Him, eh ? " 

" I have heard, I have heard," replied Stepanuich, 
' ' but we poor ignorant ones know not our letters. ' ' 

' ' Anyhow, I was reading about this very thing — how 

[180] 



WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 

He came down upon earth. I was reading how He went 
to the Pharisee, and how the Pharisee did not receive 
Him at all. Thus I thought, and so, about yesternight, 
little brother mine, I read that very thing, and bethought 
me how the Honorable did not receive our little Father 
Christ honorably. But suppose, I thought, if He came 
to one like me — would I receive Him? Simon at any 
rate did not receive Him at all. Thus I thought, and so 
thinking, fell asleep. I fell asleep, I say, little brother 
mine, and I heard my name called. I started up. A 
voice was whispering at my very ear. ' Look out tomor- 
row! ' it said, ' I am coming.' And so it befell twice. 
Now look ! wouldst thou believe it ? the idea stuck to me 
— I scold myself for my folly, and yet I look for Him, 
our little Father Christ! " 

Stepanuich shook his head and said nothing, but he 
drank his cup dry and put it aside. Then Avdyeeich 
took up the cup and filled it again. 

" Drink some more. 'Twill do thee good. Now it 
seems to me that when our little Father went about on 
earth, He despised no one, but sought unto the simple 
folk most of all. He was always among the simple folk. 
Those disciples of His, too, he chose most of them from 
amongst our brother-laborers, sinners like unto us. He 
that exalteth himself, He says, shall be abased, and he 
that abaseth himself shall be exalted. Ye, says He, call 
me Lord, and I, says He, wash your feet. He who would 
be the first among you, He says, let him become the 
servant of all. And therefore it is that He says, Blessed 
are the lowly, the peacemakers, the humble, and the long- 
suffering. ' ' 

Stepanuich forgot his tea. He was an old man, soft- 

[181] 



THE SHORT STORY 



hearted, and tearful. He sat and listened, and the tears 
rolled down his cheeks. 

" Come, drink a little more," said Avdyeeich. But 
Stepanuich crossed himself, expressed his thanks, pushed 
away his cup, and got up. 

" I thank thee, Martin Avdyeeich," said he. " I have 
fared well at thy hands, and thou hast refreshed me 
both in body and soul." 

" Thou wilt show me a kindness by coming again. I 
am very glad to have a guest, ' ' said Avdyeeich. Stepa- 
nuich departed, and Martin poured out the last drop of 
tea, drank it, washed up, and again sat down by the 
window to work — he had some back-stitching to do. 
He stitched and stitched, and now and then cast glances 
at the window — he was looking for Christ, and could 
think of nothing but Him and His works. And the 
divers sayings of Christ were in his head all the time. 

Two soldiers passed by, one in regimental boots, the 
other in boots of his own making; after that, the owner 
of the next house passed by in nicely brushed goloshes. 
A baker with a basket also passed by. All these passed 
by in turn, and then there came alongside the window 
a woman in worsted stockings and rustic shoes, and as 
she was passing by she stopped short in front of the 
partition wall. Avdyeeich looked up at her from his 
window, and he saw that the woman was a stranger and 
poorly clad, and that she had a little child with her. 
She was leaning up against the wall with her back to 
the wind, and tried to wrap the child up, but she had 
nothing to wrap it up with. The woman wore summer 
clothes, and thin enough they were. And from out of 
his corner Avdyeeich heard the child crying and the 

[182] 



WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 

woman trying to comfort it, but she could not. Then 
Avdyeeich got up, went out of the door and on to the 
steps, and cried, * ' My good woman ! my good woman ! ' ' 

The woman heard him and turned round. 

" Why dost thou stand out in the cold there with the 
child? Come inside! In the warm room thou wilt be 
better able to tend him. This way ! ' ' 

The woman was amazed. What she saw was an old 
fellow in an apron and with glasses on his nose, calling 
to her. She came towards him. 

They went down the steps together — they went into 
the room. The old man led the woman to the bed. 
" There/' said he, " sit down, gossip, nearer to the stove, 
and warm and feed thy little one. . . ." 

He went to the table, got some bread and a dish, opened 
the oven door, put some cabbage soup into the dish, took 
out a pot of gruel, but it was not quite ready, so he put 
some cabbage soup only into the dish, and placed it on 
the table. Then he fetched bread, took down the cloth 
from the hook, and spread it on the table. 

li Sit down and have something to eat, gossip/ ' said 
he, " and I will sit down a little with the youngster. I 
have had children of my own, and know how to manage 
them." 

The woman crossed herself, sat down at the table, and 
began to eat, and Avdyeeich sat down on the bed with 
the child. Avdyeeich smacked his lips at him again and 
again, but his lack of teeth made it a clumsy joke at 
best. And all the time the child never left off shrieking. 
Then Avdyeeich hit upon the idea of shaking his finger 
at him, so he snapped his fingers up and down, back- 
wards and forwards, right in front of the child 's mouth, 

[183] 



THE SHORT STORY 



because his finger was black and sticky with cobbler's 
wax. And the child stared at the finger and was silent, 
and presently it began to laugh. And Avdyeeich was 
delighted. But the woman went on eating, and told him 
who she was and whence she came. 

' ' I am a soldier 's wife, ' ' she said : ' ■ my eight months ' 
husband they drove right away from me, and nothing 
has been heard of him since. I took a cook's place till 
I became a mother. They could not keep me and the 
child. It is now three months since I have been drifting 
about without any fixed resting-place. I have eaten 
away my all. I wanted to be a wet-nurse, but people 
wouldn't have me: * Thou art too thin,' they said. I 
have just been to the merchant's wife where our grand- 
mother lives, and there they promised to take me in. I 
thought it was all right, but she told me to come again 
in a week. But she lives a long way off. I am chilled 
to death, and he is quite tired out. But, God be praised ! 
our landlady has compassion on us, and gives us shelter 
for Christ's sake. But for that I don't know how we 
could live through it all." 

Avdyeeich sighed, and said, ' ' And have you no warm 
clothes? " 

" Ah, kind friend! this is indeed warm-clothes time, 
but yesterday I pawned away my last shawl for two 
griveriki." 

The woman went to the bed and took up the child, 
but Avdyeeich stood up, went to the wall cupboard, rum- 
maged about a bit, and then brought back with him an 
old jacket. 

" Look! " said he, " 'Tis a shabby thing, 'tis true, but 
it will do to wrap up in." 

[184] 



WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 

The woman looked at the old jacket, then she gazed at 
the old man, and, taking the jacket, fell a-weeping. 
Avdyeeich also turned away, crept under the bed, drew 
out a trunk, and seemed to be very busy about it, where- 
upon he again sat down opposite the woman. 

Then the woman said: " Christ requite thee, dear 
little father ! It is plain that it was He who sent me by 
thy window. "When I first came out it was warm, and 
now it has turned very cold. And He it was, little 
father, who made thee look out of the window and have 
compassion on wretched me." 

Avdyeeich smiled slightly, and said : ' ' Yes, He must 
have done it, for I looked not out of the window in vain, 
dear gossip ! ' ' 

And Avdyeeich told his dream to the soldier's wife 
also, and how he had heard a voice promising that the 
Lord should come to him that day. 

1 ' All things are possible, ' ' said the woman. Then she 
rose up, put on the jacket, wrapped it round her little 
one, and then began to curtsy and thank Avdyeeich 
once more. 

" Take this for Christ's sake," said Avdyeeich, giving 
her a two-grivenka piece, " and redeem your shawl." 
The woman crossed herself, Avdyeeich crossed himself, 
and then he led the woman to the door. 

The woman went away. Avdyeeich ate up the remain- 
der of the cabbage soup, washed up, and again sat down 
to work. He worked on and on, but he did not forget 
the window, and whenever the window was darkened he 
immediately looked up to see who was passing. 
Acquaintances passed, strangers passed, but there was 
no one in particular. 

[185] 



THE SHORT STORY 



But now Avdyeeich sees how, right in front of his win- 
dow, an old woman, a huckster, has taken her stand. 
She carries a basket of apples. Not many now remained ; 
she had evidently sold them nearly all. Across her 
shoulder she carried a sack full of shavings. She must 
have picked them up near some new building, and was 
taking them home with her. It was plain that the sack 
was straining her shoulder. She wanted to shift it on to 
the other shoulder, so she rested the sack on the pave- 
ment, placed the apple-basket on a small post, and set 
about shaking down the shavings in the sack. Now while 
she was shaking down the sack, an urchin in a ragged 
cap suddenly turned up, goodness knows from whence, 
grabbed at one of the apples in the basket, and would 
have made off with it, but the wary old woman turned 
quickly round and gripped the youth by the sleeve. The 
lad fought and tried to tear himself loose, but the old 
woman seized him with both hands, knocked his hat off, 
and tugged hard at his hair. The lad howled, and the 
old woman reviled him. Avdyeeich ran out into the 
street. 

The old woman was tugging at the lad's hair and 
wanted to drag him off to the police, while the boy 
fought and kicked. 

" I didn't take it," said he. " What are you whack- 
ing me for ? Let me go ! " 

Avdyeeich came up and tried to part them. He seized 
the lad by the arm and said : ' ' Let him go, little mother ! 
Forgive him for Christ's sake! " 

" I '11 forgive him so that he sha 'n 't forget the taste of 
fresh birch-rods. I mean to take the rascal to the police 
station. ' ' 

[ 186 ] 



WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 

Avdyeeich began to entreat with the old woman. 

1 ' Let him go, little mother ; he will not do so any- 
more. Let him go for Christ's sake." 

The old woman let him go. The lad would have 
bolted, but Avdyeeich held him fast. 

" Beg the little mother's pardon," said he, {t and 
don 't do such things any more. I saw thee take them. ' ' 

Then the lad began to cry and beg pardon. 

' * Well, that 's all right ! And now, there 's an apple 
for thee." And Avdyeeich took one out of the basket 
and gave it to the boy. " I'll pay thee for it, little 
mother," he said to the old woman. 

" Thou wilt ruin them that way, the blackguards," 
said the old woman. " If I had the rewarding of him, 
he should not be able to sit down for a week." 

" Oh, little mother, little mother! " cried Avdyeeich, 
! . that is our way of looking at things, but it is not God 's 
way. If he ought to be whipped so for the sake of one 
apple, what do we deserve for our sins ? ' ' 

The old woman was silent. 

And Avdyeeich told the old woman about the parable 
of the master who forgave his servant a very great debt, 
and how that servant immediately went out and caught 
his fellow-servant by the throat because he was his 
debtor. The old woman listened to the end, and the 
lad listened, too. 

" God bade us forgive," said Avdyeeich, " otherwise 
He will not forgive us. We must forgive everyone, espe- 
cially the thoughtless. ' ' 

The old woman shook her head and sighed. 

" That's all very well," she said, " but they are 
spoiled enough already." 

[187] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" Then it is for us old people to teach them better,' ' 
said Avdyeeich. 

* ' So say I, ' ' replied the old woman. ' ' I had seven of 
them at one time, and now I have but a single daughter 
left. ' ' And the old woman began telling him where and 
how she lived with her daughter, and how many grand- 
children she had. ''I'm not what I was," she said, 
" but I work all I can. I am sorry for my grandchil- 
dren, and good children they are, too. No one is so glad 
to see me as they are. Little Aksyutka will go to none 
but me. ' Grandma dear ! darling grandma ! ' " and the 
old woman was melted to tears. "As for him, ' ' she 
added, pointing to the lad, ' ' boys will be boys, I suppose. 
Well, God be with him! " 

Now just as the old woman was about to hoist the 
sack on to her shoulder, the lad rushed forward and 
said: 

■ ' Give it here and 1 11 carry it for thee, granny ! It 
is all in my way." 

The old woman shook her head, but she did put the 
sack on the lad's shoulder. 

And so they trudged down the street together side by 
side. And the old woman forgot to ask Avdyeeich for 
the money for the apple. Avdyeeich kept standing and 
looking after them, and heard how they talked to each 
other, as they went, about all sorts of things. 

Avdyeeich followed them with his eyes till they were 
out of sight, then he turned homewards and found his 
glasses on the steps (they were not broken), picked up 
his awl, and sat down to work again. He worked away 
for a little while, but soon he was scarcely able to distin- 
guish the stitches, and saw the lamplighter going round 

[188] 



WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO 

to light the lamps. "I see it is time to light up," 
thought he, so he trimmed his little lamp, lighted it, aud 
again sat down to work. He finished one boot com- 
pletely, turned it round and inspected it. " Good! " 
he cried. He put away his tools, swept up the cuttings, 
removed the brushes and tips, put away the awl, took 
down the lamp, placed it on the table, and took down 
the Gospels from the shelf. He wanted to find the 
passage where he had last evening placed a strip 
of morocco leather by way of marker, but he lit upon 
another place. And just as Avdyeeich opened the 
Gospel, he recollected his dream of yesterday evening. 
And no sooner did he call it to mind than it seemed to 
him as if some persons were moving about and shuffling 
with their feet behind him. Avdyeeich glanced round 
and saw that somebody was indeed standing in the dark 
corner — yes, someone was really there, but who he 
could not exactly make out. Then a voice whispered 
in his ear: 

1 ' Martin ! Martin ! dost thou not know me? " 

" Who art thou? " cried Avdyeeich. 

" 'Tis I," cried the voice, " lo, 'tis I! " And forth 
from the dark corner stepped Stepanuich. He smiled, 
and it was as though a little cloud were breaking, and 
he was gone. 

1 ' It is I ! " cried the voice, and forth from the corner 
stepped a woman with a little child; and the woman 
smiled and the child laughed, and they also disappeared. 

1 ' And it is I ! ' ' cried the voice, and the old woman 
and the lad with the apple stepped forth, and both of 
them smiled, and they also disappeared. 

And the heart of Avdyeeich was glad. He crossed 

[189] 






THE SHORT STORY 



himself, put on his glasses, and began to read the Gospels 
at the place where he had opened them. And at the 
top of the page he read these words: " And I was an 
hungered and thirsty, and ye gave Me to drink. I was 
a stranger, and ye took Me in." 

And at the bottom of the page he read this : ' ' Inas- 
much as ye have done it to the least of these My brethren, 
ye have done it unto Me." 

And Avdyeeich understood that his dream had not 
deceived him, and that the Saviour had really come to 
him that day, and he had really received Him. 



[190 J 



THE FATHER 
By Bjornstjerne Bjornson 

Bjornstjerne Bjornson (1832-1910) is one of the two great 

\ names in Norwegian literature of recent times. The other 

| is Henrik Ibsen. Bjornson was the son of a village clergy- 

j man. He was well educated in the University of Christiania, 

Norway, and later at Copenhagen, Denmark. His fame as a 

i literary man is due to his work as poet, novelist, and 

| dramatist. His novels depict Norwegian peasant life chiefly. 

His early work as novelist comprises Arne (1858), A Happy 

Boy (1860), and The Fisher Maiden (1868). In later life he 

wrote Flags Are Flying in Town and Haroor, and In God's 

Way. A long list of short stories and dramatic pieces add to 

his fame. For many years he was a leading figure in the 

dramatic, literary, and political life of Norway. He was 

director of the Christiania theater from 1865 to 1867. In 1903 

he was awarded the Nobel prize in literature. 

The man whose story is here to be told was the wealth- 
iest and most influential person in his parish ; his name 
was Thord Overaas. He appeared in the priest's study 
one day, tall and earnest. 

1 ' I have got a son, ' ' said he, ' ' and I wish to present 
him for baptism. ' ' 

" What shall his name be? " 

* ' Finn — after my father. ' ' 

1 1 And the sponsors ? ' ' 

They were mentioned, and proved to be the best men 
and women of Thord 's relations in the parish. 

" Is there anything else? " inquired the priest, and 
looked up. 

[191] 



THE SHORT STORY 



The peasant hesitated a little. 

" I should like very much to have him baptized by 
himself, ' ' said he, finally. 

' ' That is to say on a week-day ? ' ' 

" Next Saturday, at twelve o'clock noon." 

' ' Is there anything else ? ' ' inquired the priest. 

I * There is nothing else ; ' ' and the peasant twirled his 
cap, as though he were about to go. 

Then the priest rose. " There is yet this, however," 
said he, and walking toward Thord, he took him by the 
hand and looked gravely into his eyes : ' ' God grant that 
the child may become a blessing to you ! ' ' 

One day sixteen years later, Thord stood once more 
in the priest 's study. 

" Really, you carry your age astonishingly well, 
Thord, ' ' said the priest ; for he saw no change whatever 
in the man. 

' ' That is because I have no troubles, ' ' replied Thord. 

To this the priest said nothing, but after a while he 
asked: " What is your pleasure this evening? " 

1 ' I have come this evening about that son of mine who 
is to be confirmed tomorrow." 

" He is a bright boy." 

II I did not wish to pay the priest until I heard what 
number the boy would have when he takes his place in 
church tomorrow." 

" He will stand number one." 

" So I have heard; and here are ten dollars for the 
priest. ' ' 

1 ' Is there anything else I can do for you ? ' ' inquired 
the priest, fixing his eyes on Thord. 

" There is nothing else." 

[192] 



THE FATHER 



Thord went out. 

Eight years more rolled by, and then one day a noise 
was heard outside of the priest's study, for many men 
were approaching, and at their head was Thord, who 
entered first. 

The priest looked up and recognized him. 

" You come well attended this evening, Thord," 
said he. 

" I am here to request that the banns may be pub- 
lished for my son; he is about to marry Karen Stor- 
liden, daughter of Gudmund, who stands here 
beside me." 

" Why, that is the richest girl in the parish." 

" So they say," replied the peasant, stroking back his 
hair with one hand. 

The priest sat a while as if in deep thought, then 
entered the names in his book, without making any com- 
ments, and the men wrote their signatures underneath. 
Thord laid three dollars on the table. 

" One is all I am to have," said the priest. 

1 * I know that very well ; but he is my only child. I 
want to do it handsomely." 

The priest took the money. 

" This is now the third time, Thord, that you have 
come here on your son's account." 

" But now I am through with him," said Thord, and 
folding up his pocket-book he said farewell and walked 
away. 

The men slowly followed him. 

A fortnight later, the father and son were rowing 
across the lake, one calm, still day, to Storliden to make 
arrangements for the wedding. 

[193] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" This thwart is not secure,'' said the son, and stood 
up to straighten the seat on which he was sitting. 

At the same moment the board he was standing on 
slipped from under him ; he threw out his arms, uttered 
a shriek, and fell overboard. 

' ' Take hold of the oar ! ' ' shouted the father, spring- 
ing to his feet and holding out the oar. 

But when the son had made a couple of efforts he grew 
stiff. 

1 ' Wait a moment ! ' ' cried the father, and began to 
row toward his son. 

Then the son rolled over on his back, gave his father 
one long look, and sank. 

Thord could scarcely believe it ; he held the boat still, 
and stared at the spot where his son had gone down, as 
though he must surely come to the surface again. There 
rose some bubbles, then some more, and finally one large 
one that burst; and the lake lay there as smooth and 
bright as a mirror again. 

For three days and three nights people saw the father 
rowing round and round the spot, without taking either 
food or sleep ; he was dragging the lake for the body of 
his son. And toward morning of the third day he found 
it, and carried it in his arms up over the hills to his 
gard. 

It might have been about a year from that day, when 
the priest, late one autumn evening, heard someone in 
the passage outside of the door, carefully trying to find 
the latch. The priest opened the door, and in walked 
a tall, thin man, with bowed form and white hair. The 
priest looked long at him before he recognized him. It 
was Thord. 

[194] 



THE FATHER 



' ' Are you out walking so late ? ' ' said the priest, and 
I stood still in front of him. 

' ' Ah, yes ! it is late, ' ' said Thord, and took a seat. 

The priest sat down also, as though waiting. A long, 
1 long silence followed. At last Thord said: 

" I have something with me that I should like to give 
to the poor; I want it to be invested as a legacy in my 
I son's name." 

He rose, laid some money on the table, and sat down 
again. The priest counted it. 

" It is a great deal of money, ' ' said he. 

1 ' It is half the price of my gard. I sold it today. ' ' 

The priest sat long in silence. At last he asked, but 
gently : 

" What do you propose to do now, Thord? " 

" Something better." 

They sat there for a while, Thord with downcast eyes, 
the priest with his eyes fixed on Thord. Presently the 
priest said, slowly and softly: 

" I think your son has at last brought you a true 
blessing." 

1 ' Yes, I think so myself, ' ' said Thord, looking up, 
while two big tears coursed slowly down his cheeks. 



STUDY NOTES 

The theme is the important thing in this story. State 
it, and then observe how the author develops it. See 
j how bare of ornament the story is and how simply the 
| theme is treated. Is such a treatment suited to this kind 
j of story? Could a story depending upon exciting inci- 
! dents be made effective in this manner? 
i 

! [ 195 ] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 
By James Hogg 

James Hogg (1770-1835) was born at Ettrick, Selkirkshire, 
Scotland, a year before the birth of Sir Walter Scott. He is 
commonly known as the " Ettrick Shepherd," and is more 
famous for his verse than for his prose tales. The story 
following is from his Winter Evening Tales, published in 1820. 

A great number of people nowadays are beginning 
broadly to insinuate that there are no such things as 
ghosts, or spiritual beings visible to mortal sight. Even 
Sir Walter Scott is turned renegade, and, with his stories 
made up of half-and-half, like Nathaniel Gow's toddy, 
is trying to throw cold water on the most certain, though 
most impalpable, phenomena of human nature. The 
bodies are daft. Heaven mend their wits ! Before they 
had ventured to assert such things, I wish they had been 
where I have often been; or, in particular, where the 
Laird of Birkendelly was on St. Lawrence's Eve, in the 
year 1777, and sundry times subsequent to that. 

Be it known, then, to every reader of this relation of 
facts that happened in my own remembrance that the 
road from Birkendelly to the great muckle village of 
Balmawhapple (commonly called the muckle town, in 
opposition to the little town that stood on the other side 
of the burn) — that road, I say, lay between two thorn- 
hedges, so well kept by the Laird's hedger, so close, and 
so high, that a rabbit could not have escaped from the 
highway into any of the adjoining fields. Along this 

[196] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 



road was the Laird riding on the Eve of St. Lawrence, 
in a careless, indifferent manner, with his hat to one 
side, and his cane dancing a hornpipe before him. He 
was, moreover, chanting a song to himself; and I have 
heard people tell what song it was, too. There was once 
a certain, or rather uncertain, bard, ycleped Robert 
Burns, who made a number of good songs ; but this that 
the Laird sang was an amorous song of great antiquity, 
which, like all the said bard's best songs, was sung one 
hundred and fifty years before he was born. It began 
thus: 

I am the Laird of Windy-wa's, 

I cam nae here without a cause, 

An' I hae gotten forty fa's 

In coming o'er the knowe, joe. 

The night it is baith wind and weet; 

The morn it will be snaw and sleet; 

My shoon are frozen to my feet; 
O, rise an' let me in, joe! 
Let me in this ae night, . . . 

This song was the Laird singing, while, at the same 
time, he was smudging and laughing at the catastrophe, 
when, ere ever aware, he beheld, a short way before him, 
an uncommonly elegant and beautiful girl walking in 
the same direction with him. " Aye," said the Laird to 
himself, * ' here is something very attractive indeed ! 
Where the deuce can she have sprung from? She must 
have risen out of the earth, for I never saw her till this 
breath. Well, I declare I have not seen such a female 
figure — I wish I had such an assignation with her as 
the Laird of Windy- wa 's had with his sweetheart. ' ' 

As the Laird was half-thinking, half-speaking this to 
himself, the enchanting creature looked back at him 

[197] 



THE SHORT STORY 



with a motion of intelligence that she knew what he was 
half -saying, half -thinking, and then vanished over the 
summit of the rising ground before him, called the Birky 
Brow. ' ' Aye, go your ways ! ' ' said the Laird ; ' * I see 
by you, you'll not be very hard to overtake. You can- 
not get off the road, and 1 11 have a chat with you before 
you make the Deer 's Den. ' ' 

The Laird jogged on. He did not sing the Laird of 
Windy- wa's any more, for he felt a stifling about his 
heart; but he often repeated to himself, " She's a very 
fine woman ! — a very fine woman indeed ! — and to be 
walking here by herself! I cannot comprehend it." 

When he reached the summit of the Birky Brow he 
did not see her, although he had a longer view of the 
road than before. He thought this very singular, and 
began to suspect that she wanted to escape him, although 
apparently rather lingering on him before. " I shall 
have another look at her, however," thought the Laird, 
and off he set at a flying trot. No. He came first to 
one turn, then another. There was nothing of the young 
lady to be seen. " Unless she take wings and fly away, 
I shall be up with her, ' ' quoth the Laird, and off he set 
at the full gallop. 

In the middle of his career he met with Mr. McMurdie, 
of Aulton, who hailed him with, " Hilloa, Birkendelly! 
Where the deuce are you flying at that rate ? ' ' 

" I was riding after a woman," said the Laird, with 
great simplicity, reining in his steed. 

' ' Then I am sure no woman on earth can long escape 
you, unless she be in an air balloon. ' ' 

11 I don't know that. Is she far gone? " 

' ' In which way do you mean ? ' ' 

[198] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 



"In this." 

* * Aha-ha-ha ! Hee-hee-hee ! ' ' nichered McMurdie, 
misconstruing the Laird's meaning. 

" "What do you laugh at, my dear sir? Do you know 
her, then? " 

1 ' Ho-ho-ho ! Hee-hee-hee ! How should I, or how can 
I, know her, Birkendelly, unless you inform me who 
she is? " 

" Why, that is the very thing I want to know of you. 
I mean the young lady whom you met just now. ' ' 

1 ' You are raving, Birkendelly. I met no young lady, 
nor is there a single person on the road I have come by, 
while you know that for a mile and a half forward your 
way she could not get out of it. ' ' 

1 ' I know that, ' ' said the Laird, biting his lip and look- 
ing greatly puzzled ; ' ' but confound me if I understand 
this ; for I was within speech of her just now on the top 
of the Birky Brow there, and, when I think of it, she 
could not have been even thus far as yet. She had on 
a pure white gauze frock, a small green bonnet and 
feathers, and a green veil, which, flung back over her 
left shoulder, hung below her waist, and was altogether 
such an engaging figure that no man could have passed 
her on the road without taking some note of her. Are 
you not making game of me? Did you not really meet 
with her? " 

1 ' On my word of truth and honor, I did not. Come, 
ride back with me, and we shall meet her still, depend 
on it. She has given you the go-by on the road. Let 
us go; I am only to call at the mill about some barley 
for the distillery, and will return with you to the big 
town." 

[199] 



THE SHORT STORY 






Birkendelly returned with his friend. The sun was 
not yet set, yet McMurdie could not help observing that 
the Laird looked thoughtful and confused, and not a 
word could he speak about anything save this lovely 
apparition with the white frock and the green veil ; and 
lo ! when they reached the top of Birky Brow there was 
the maiden again before them, and exactly at the same 
spot where the Laird first saw her before, only walking 
in the contrary direction. 

" Well, this is the most extraordinary thing that I 
ever knew ! ' ' exclaimed the Laird. 

" What is it, sir? " said McMurdie. 

" How that young lady could have eluded me," 
returned the Laird. ' ' See, here she is still ! ' ' 

" I beg your pardon, sir, I don't see her. Where is 
she? " 

" There, on the other side of the angle; but you are 
short-sighted. See, there she is ascending the other emi- 
nence in her white frock and green veil, as I told you. 
What a lovely creature ! ' ' 

" Well, well, we have her fairly before us now, and 
shall see what she is like at all events, ' ' said McMurdie. 

Between the Birky Brow and this other slight emi- 
nence there is an obtuse angle of the road at the part 
where it is lowest, and, in passing this, the two friends 
necessarily lost sight of the object of their curiosity. 
They pushed on at a quick pace, cleared the low angle — 
the maiden was not there ! They rode full speed to the 
top of the eminence from whence a long extent of road 
was visible before them — there was no human creature 
in view. McMurdie laughed aloud, but the Laird turned 
pale as death and bit his lip. His friend asked him 

[200] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 



good-humoredly why he was so much affected. He said, 
because he could not comprehend the meaning of this 
singular apparition or illusion, and it troubled him the 
more as he now remembered a dream of the same nature 
which he had had, and which terminated in a dreadful 
manner. 

' ' "Why, man, you are dreaming still, ' ' said McMurdie. 
' ' But, never mind ; it is quite common for men of your 
complexion to dream of beautiful maidens with white 
frocks, and green veils, bonnets, feathers, and slender 
waists. It is a lovely image, the creation of your own 
sanguine imagination, and you may worship it without 
any blame. Were her shoes black or green? And her 
stockings — did you note them? The symmetry of the 
limbs, I am sure you did ! Good-bye ; I see you are not 
disposed to leave the spot. Perhaps she will appear to 
you again. " 

So saying, McMurdie rode on toward the mill, and 
Birkendelly, after musing for some time, turned his 
beast 's head slowly round, and began to move toward the 
great muckle village. 

The Laird's feelings were now in terrible commotion. 
He was taken beyond measure with the beauty and ele- 
gance of the figure he had seen, but he remembered, with 
a mixture of admiration and horror, that a dream of the 
same enchanting object had haunted his slumbers all the 
days of his life ; yet, how singular that he should never 
have recollected the circumstance till now ! But farther, 
with the dream there were connected some painful cir- 
cumstances which, though terrible in their issue, he could 
not recollect so as to form them into any degree of 
arrangement. 

[201] 



THE SHORT STORY 



As lie was considering deeply of these things and rid- 
ing slowly down the declivity, neither dancing his cane 
nor singing the Laird of Windy- wa's, he lifted up his 
eyes, and there was the girl on the same spot where he 
saw her first, walking deliberately up the Birky Brow. 
The sun was down, but it was the month of August and 
a fine evening, and the Laird, seized with an unconquer- 
able desire to see and speak with that incomparable 
creature, could restrain himself no longer, but shouted 
out to her to stop till he came up. She beckoned acquies- 
cence, and slackened her pace into a slow movement. 
The Laird turned the corner quickly, but when he had 
rounded it the maiden was still there, though on the 
summit of the brow. She turned round, and, with an 
ineffable smile and curtsy, saluted him, and again moved 
slowly on. She vanished gradually beyond the summit, 
and while the green feathers were still nodding in view, 
and so nigh that the Laird could have touched them with 
a fishing-rod, he reached the top of the brow himself. 
There was no living soul there, nor onward, as far as his 
view reached. He now trembled in every limb, and, 
without knowing what he did, rode straight on to the 
big town, not daring well to return and see what he had 
seen for three several times ; and certain he would see it 
again when the shades of evening were deepening, he 
deemed it proper and prudent to decline the pursuit of 
such a phantom any farther. 

He alighted at the Queen's Head, called for some 
brandy and water, quite forgot what was his errand to 
the great muckle town that afternoon, there being noth- 
ing visible to his mental sight but lovely images, with 
white gauze frocks and green veils. His friend McMur- 

[202] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 



die joined him ; they drank deep, bantered, reasoned, got 
angry, reasoned themselves calm again, and still all would 
not do. The Laird was conscious that he had seen the 
beautiful apparition, and, moreover, that she was the 
very maiden, or the resemblance of her, who, in the irre- 
vocable decrees of Providence, was destined to be his. 
It was in vain that McMurdie reasoned of impressions 
on the imagination, and 

Of fancy moulding in the mind, 
Light visions on the passing wind. 

Vain also was a story that he told him of a relation of 
his own, who was greatly harassed by the apparition of 
an officer in a red uniform that haunted him day and 
night, and had very nigh put him quite distracted sev- 
eral times, till at length his physician found out the 
nature of this illusion so well that he knew, from the 
state of his pulse, to an hour when the ghost of the officer 
would appear, and by bleeding, low diet, and emollients 
contrived to keep the apparition away altogether. 

The Laird admitted the singularity of this incident, 
but not that it was one in point; for the one, he said, 
was imaginary, the other real, and that no conclusions 
could convince him in opposition to the authority of his 
own senses. He accepted of an invitation to spend a 
few days with McMurdie and his family, but they all 
acknowledged afterward that the Laird was very much 
like one bewitched. 

As soon as he reached home he went straight to the 
Birky Brow, certain of seeing once more the angelic 
phantom, but she was not there. He took each of his 
former positions again and again, but the desired vision 

[203] 



THE SHORT STORY 



would in no wise make its appearance. He tried every- 
day and every hour of the day, all with the same effect, 
till he grew absolutely desperate, and had the audacity 
to kneel on the spot and entreat of Heaven to see her. 
Yes, he called on Heaven to see her once more, whatever 
she was, whether a being of earth, heaven, or hell. 

He was now in such a state of excitement that he could 
not exist ; he grew listless, impatient, and sickly, took to 
his bed, and sent for McMurdie and the doctor ; and the 
issue of the consultation was that Birkendelly consented 
to leave the country for a season, on a visit to his only 
sister in Ireland, whither we must accompany him for a 
short space. 

His sister was married to Captain Bryan, younger, of 
Scoresby, and they two lived in a cottage on the estate, 
and the Captain's parents and sisters at Scoresby Hall. 
Great was the stir and preparation when the gallant 
young Laird of Birkendelly arrived at the cottage, it 
never being doubted that he came to forward a second 
bond of connection with the family, which still contained 
seven dashing sisters, all unmarried, and all alike willing 
to change that solitary and helpless state for the envied 
one of matrimony — a state highly popular among the 
young women of Ireland. Some of the Misses Bryan 
had now reached the years of womanhood, several of 
them scarcely, but these small disqualifications made no 
difference in the estimation of the young ladies them- 
selves ; each and all of them brushed up for the competi- 
tion with high hopes and unflinching resolutions. True, 
the elder ones tried to check the younger in their good- 
natured, forthright Irish way; but they retorted, and 
persisted in their superior pretensions. Then there was 

[204] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 



j such shopping in the county town ! It was so boundless 

j that the credit of the Hall was finally exhausted, and the 
old Squire was driven to remark that " Och, and to be 

j sure it was a dreadful and tirrabell concussion, to be 
put upon the equipment of seven daughters all at the 

| same moment, as if the young gentleman could marry 
them all ! Och, then, poor dear shoul, he would be after 
finding that one was sufficient, if not one too many. And 
therefore there was no occasion, none at all, at all, and 
that there was not, for any of them to rig out more than 

j one." 

It was hinted that the Laird had some reason for com- 
plaint at this time, but as the lady sided with her daugh- 

i ters, he had no chance. One of the items of his account 
was thirty-seven buckling-combs, then greatly in vogue. 

| There were black combs, pale combs, yellow combs, and 

| gilt ones, all to suit or set off various complexions ; and 
if other articles bore any proportion at all to these, it 
had been better for the Laird and all his family that 
Birkendelly had never set foot in Ireland. 

The plan was all concocted. There was to be a grand 
dinner at the Hall, at which the damsels were to appear 
in all their finery. A ball to follow, and note be taken 
which of the young ladies was their guest's choice, and 
measures taken accordingly. The dinner and the ball 
took place; and what a pity I may not describe that 
entertainment, the dresses, and the dancers, for they 
were all exquisite in their way, and outre beyond 
measure. But such details only serve to derange a winter 
evening 's tale such as this. 

Birkendelly having at this time but one model for his 
choice among womankind, all that ever he did while in 

[205] 



THE SHORT STORY 



the presence of ladies was to look out for some resem- 
blance to her, the angel of his fancy ; and it so happened 
that in one of old Bryan's daughters named Luna, or, 
more familiarly, Loony, he perceived, or thought he per- 
ceived, some imaginary similarity in form and air to the 
lovely apparition. This was the sole reason why he was 
incapable of taking his eyes off from her the whole of 
that night; and this incident settled the point, not only 
with the old people, but even the young ladies were 
forced, after every exertion on their own parts, to * c yild 
the p'int to their sister Loony, who certainly was not 
the mist genteelest nor mist handsomest of that guid- 
lucking fimily." 

The next day Lady Luna was dispatched off to the 
cottage in grand style, there to live hand in glove with 
her supposed lover. There was no standing all this. 
There were the two paddocked together, like a ewe and 
a lamb, early and late; and though the Laird really 
appeared to have, and probably had, some delight in her 
company, it was only in contemplating that certain inde- 
finable air of resemblance which she bore to the sole 
image impressed on his heart. He bought her a white 
gauze frock, a green bonnet and feather, with a veil, 
which she was obliged to wear thrown over her left 
shoulder, and every day after, six times a day, was she 
obliged to walk over a certain eminence at a certain 
distance before her lover. She was delighted to oblige 
him ; but still, when he came up, he looked disappointed, 
and never said, " Luna, I love you; when are we to be 
married? " No, he never said any such thing, for all 
her looks and expressions of fondest love; for, alas! in 
all this dalliance he was only feeding a mysterious flame 

[206] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 



that preyed upon his vitals, and proved too severe for 
the powers either of reason or religion to extinguish. 
Still, time flew lighter and lighter by, his health was 
restored, the bloom of his cheek returned, and the frank 
and simple confidence of Luna had a certain charm with 
it that reconciled him to his sister 's Irish economy. But 
a strange incident now happened to him which deranged 
all his immediate plans. 

He was returning from angling one evening, a little 
before sunset, when he saw Lady Luna awaiting him on 
his way home. But instead of rushing up to meet him 
as usual, she turned, and walked up the rising ground 
before him. 

' ' Poor sweet girl ! how condescending she is, ' ' said 
he to himself, " and how like she is in reality to the 
angelic being whose form and features are so deeply 
impressed on my heart! I now see it is no fond or 
fancied resemblance. It is real! real! real! How I 
long to clasp her in my arms, and tell her how I love 
her ; for, after all, that is the girl that is to be mine, and 
the former a vision to impress this the more on my 
heart.' ' 

He posted up the ascent to overtake her. When at 
the top she turned, smiled, and curtsied. Good heavens ! 
it was the identical lady of his fondest adoration her- 
self, but lovelier, far lovelier, than ever. He expected 
every moment that she would vanish, as was her wont; 
but she did not — she awaited him, and received his 
embraces with open arms. She was a being of real flesh 
and blood, courteous, elegant, and affectionate. He 
kissed her hand, he kissed her glowing cheek, and blessed 
all the powers of love who had thus restored her to him 

[207] 



THE SHORT STORY 



again, after undergoing pangs of love such, as man never 
suffered. 

1 ' But, dearest heart, here we are standing in the mid- 
dle of the highway," said he; " suffer me to conduct 
you to my sister's house, where you shall have an apart- 
ment with a child of nature having some slight resem- 
blance to yourself. " She smiled, and said, ll No, I will 
not sleep with Lady Luna tonight. Will you please to 
look round you, and see where you are." He did so, 
and behold they were standing on the Birky Brow, on 
the only spot where he had ever seen her. She smiled 
at his embarrassed look, and asked if he did not remem- 
ber aught of his coming over from Ireland. He said he 
thought he did remember something of it, but love with 
him had long absorbed every other sense. He then 
asked her to his own house, which she declined, saying 
she could only meet him on that spot till after their mar- 
riage, which could not be before St. Lawrence's Eve 
come three years. " And now," said she, " we must 
part. My name is Jane Ogilvie, and you were betrothed 
to me before you were born. But I am come to release 
you this evening, if you have the slightest objection." 

He declared he had none ; and kneeling, swore the most 
solemn oath to be hers forever, and to meet her there on 
St. Lawrence's Eve next, and every St. Lawrence's Eve 
until that blessed day on which she had consented to 
make him happy by becoming his own forever. She then 
asked him affectionately to change rings with her, in 
pledge of their faith and troth, in which he joyfully 
acquiesced; for she could not have then asked any con- 
ditions which in the fulness of his heart 's love, he would 
not have granted; and after one fond and affectionate 

[208] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 



kiss, and repeating all their engagements over again, they 
parted. 

Birkendelly's heart was now melted within him, and 
all his senses overpowered by one overwhelming passion. 
On leaving his fair and kind one, he got bewildered, and 
could not find the road to his own house, believing some- 
times that he was going there, and sometimes to his sis- 
ter's, till at length he came, as he thought, upon the 
Liffey, at its junction with Loch Allan; and there, in 
attempting to call for a boat, he awoke from a profound 
sleep, and found himself lying in his bed within his sis- 
ter's house, and the day sky just breaking. 

If he was puzzled to account for some things in the 
course of his dream, he was much more puzzled to account 
for them now that he was wide awake. He was sensible 
that he had met his love, had embraced, kissed, and 
exchanged vows and rings with her, and, in token of the 
truth and reality of all these, her emerald ring was on 
his finger, and his own away ; so there was no doubt that 
they had met — by what means it was beyond the power 
of man to calculate. 

There was then living with Mrs. Bryan an old Scots- 
woman, commonly styled Lucky Black. She had nursed 
Birkendelly 's mother, and been dry-nurse to himself and 
sister; and having more than a mother's attachment for 
the latter, when she was married, old Lucky left her 
country to spend the last of her days in the house of her 
beloved young lady. When the Laird entered the break- 
fast-parlor that morning she was sitting in her black 
velvet hood, as usual, reading The Fourfold State of 
Man, and, being paralytic and somewhat deaf, she sel- 
dom regarded those who went or came. But chancing 

[209] 



THE SHORT STORY 



to hear him say something about the ninth of August, 
she quitted reading, turned round her head to listen, and 
then asked, in a hoarse, tremulous voice : ' ' What 's that 
he's saying? What's the unlucky callant saying about 
the ninth of August? Aih? To be sure it is St. Law- 
rence's Eve, although the tenth be his day. It's ower 
true, ower true, ower true for him an' a' his kin, poor 
man! Aih? What was he saying then? " 

The men smiled at her incoherent earnestness, but the 
lady, with true feminine condescension, informed her, in 
a loud voice, that Allan had an engagement in Scotland 
on St. Lawrence's Eve. She then started up, extended 
her shriveled hands, that shook like the aspen, and 
panted out: " Aih, aih? Lord preserve us! Whaten 
an engagement has he on St. Lawrence's Eve? Bind 
him ! bind him ! Shackle him wi ' bands of steel, and of 
brass, and of iron ! Oh, may He whose blessed will was 
pleased to leave him an orphan sae soon, preserve him 
from the fate which I tremble to think on ! ' ' 

She then tottered round the table, as with supernatural 
energy, and seizing the Laird's right hand, she drew it 
close to her unstable eyes, and then perceiving the emer- 
ald ring chased in blood, she threw up her arms with a 
jerk, opened her skinny jaws with a fearful gape, and 
uttering a shriek that made all the house yell, and every 
one within it to tremble, she fell back lifeless and rigid 
on the floor. The gentlemen both fled, out of sheer ter- 
ror ; but a woman never deserts her friends in extremity. 
The lady called her maids about her, had her old nurse 
conveyed to bed, where every means were used to restore 
animation. But, alas, life was extinct ! The vital spark 
had fled forever, which filled all their hearts with grief, 

[210] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 



| disappointment, and horror, as some dreadful tale of 

I mystery was now sealed up from their knowledge, which, 

! in all likelihood, no other could reveal. But to say the 

; truth, the Laird did not seem greatly disposed to probe 

! it to the bottom. 

Not all the arguments of Captain Bryan and his lady, 

i nor the simple entreaties of Lady Luna, could induce 

; Birkendelly to put off his engagement to meet his love 

! on the Birky Brow on the evening of the ninth of 

! August ; but he promised soon to return, pretending that 

| some business of the utmost importance called him away. 

! Before he went, however, he asked his sister if ever she 

i . 

, had heard of such a lady in Scotland as Jane Ogilvie. 

Mrs. Bryan repeated the name many times to herself, 

I and said that the name undoubtedly was once familiar 

to her, although she thought not for good, but at that 

moment she did not recollect one single individual of the 

| name. He then showed her the emerald ring that had 

' been the death of Lucky Black; but the moment the lady 

j looked at it, she made a grasp at it to take it off by force, 

which she had very nearly effected. " Oh, burn it! 

burn it ! ' ' cried she ; ' ' it is not a right ring ! Burn it ! ' ' 

" My dear sister, what fault is in the ring? " said he. 

" It is a very pretty ring, and one that I set great 

value by." 

" Oh, for Heaven's sake, burn it, and renounce the 

giver! " cried she. " If you have any regard for your 

peace here or your soul's welfare hereafter, burn that 

ring ! If you saw with your own eyes, you would easily 

perceive that that is not a ring befitting a Christian to 

wear." 

This speech confounded Birkendelly a good deal. He 

[2113 



THE SHORT STORY 



retired by himself and examined the ring, and could see 
nothing in it unbecoming a Christian to wear. It was 
a chased gold ring, with a bright emerald, which last 
had a red foil, in some lights giving it a purple gleam, 
and inside was engraven Elegit, much defaced, but 
that his sister could not see ; therefore he could not com- 
prehend her vehement injunctions concerning it. But 
that it might no more give her offence, or any other, 
he sewed it within his vest, opposite his heart, judging 
that there was something in it which his eyes were with- 
holden from discerning. 

Thus he left Ireland with his mind in great confusion, 
groping his way, as it were, in a hole of mystery, yet 
with the passion that preyed on his heart and vitals more 
intense than ever. He seems to have had an impression 
all his life that some mysterious fate awaited him, which 
the correspondence of his dreams and day visions tended 
to confirm. And though he gave himself wholly up to 
the sway of one overpowering passion, it was not with- 
out some yearnings of soul, manifestations of terror, and 
so much, earthly shame, that he never more mentioned 
his love, or his engagements, to any human being, not 
even to his friend McMurdie, whose company he forth- 
with shunned. 

It is on this account that I am unable to relate what 
passed between the lovers thenceforward. It is certain 
they met at the Birky Brow that St. Lawrence's Eve, 
for they were seen in company together; but of the 
engagements, vows, or dalliance that passed between 
them I can say nothing ; nor of all their future meetings, 
until the beginning of August, 1781, when the Laird 
began decidedly to make preparations for his approach- 

[212] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 



ing marriage ; yet not as if he and his betrothed had been 
going to reside at Birkendelly, all his provisions rather 
bespeaking a meditated journey. 

On the morning of the ninth he wrote to his sister, and 
then arraying himself in his new wedding suit, and put- 
ting the emerald ring on his finger, he appeared all impa- 
tience, until toward evening, when he sallied out on 
horseback to his appointment. It seems that his mys- 
terious inamorata had met him, for he was seen riding 
through the big town before sunset, with a young lady 
behind him, dressed in white and green, and the vil- 
lagers affirmed that they were riding at the rate of fifty 
miles an hour ! They were seen to pass a cottage called 
Mosskilt, ten miles farther on, where there was no high- 
way, at the same tremendous speed; and I could never 
hear that they were any more seen, until the following 
morning, when Birkendelly 's fine bay horse was found 
lying dead at his own stable door ; and shortly after his 
master was likewise discovered lying, a blackened corpse, 
on the Birky Brow at the very spot where the mysterious 
but lovely dame had always appeared to him. There was 
neither wound, bruise, nor dislocation in his whole 
frame ; but his skin was of a livid color, and his features 
terribly distorted. 

This woful catastrophe struck the neighborhood with 
great consternation, so that nothing else was talked of. 
Every ancient tradition and modern incident were raked 
together, compared, and combined ; and certainly a most 
rare concatenation of misfortunes was elicited. It was 
authenticated that his father had died on the same spot 
that day twenty years, and his grandfather that day 
forty years, the former, as was supposed, by a fall from 

[213] 



THE SHORT STORY 



his horse when in liquor, and the latter, nobody knew i 
how ; and now this Allan was the last of his race, for i 
Mrs. Bryan had no children. 

It was, moreover, now remembered by many, and 
among the rest by the Rev. Joseph Taylor, that he had 
frequently observed a young lady, in white and green, 
sauntering about the spot on a St. Lawrence's Eve. 

When Captain Bryan and his lady arrived to take pos- 
session of the premises, they instituted a strict inquiry 
into every circumstance ; but nothing further than what ( 
was related to them by Mr. McMurdie could be learned 
of this Mysterious Bride, besides what the Laird's own 
letter bore. It ran thus : 

Dearest Sister — I shall before this time tomorrow be the 
most happy, or most miserable, of mankind, having solemnly- 
engaged myself this night to wed a young and beautiful lady, 
named Jane Ogilvie, to whom it seems I was betrothed before 
I was born. Our correspondence has been of a most private 
and mysterious nature; but my troth is pledged, and my reso- 
lution fixed. We set out on a far journey to the place of her 
abode on the nuptial eve, so that it will be long before I see 
you again. Yours till death, 

Allan George Sandison. 
Birkendelly, August 8, 1781. 

That very same year, an old woman, named Marion 
Haw, was returned upon that, her native parish, from 
Glasgow. She had led a migratory life with her son — 
who was what he called a bell-hanger, but in fact a tinker i 
of the worst grade — for many years, and was at last 
returned to the muckle town in a state of great destitu- 
tion. She gave the parishioners a history of the Mys- 
terious Bride, so plausibly correct, but withal so 
romantic, that everybody said of it (as is often said of 

[214] 



THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE 



my narratives, with the same narrow-minded prejudice 
and injustice) that it was a made story. There were, 
however, some strong testimonies of its veracity. 

She said that the first Allan Sandison, who married 
the great heiress of Birkendelly, was previously engaged 
to a beautiful young lady named Jane Ogilvie, to whom 
he gave anything but fair play; and, as she believed, 
either murdered her, or caused her to be murdered, in 
the midst of a thicket of birch and broom, at a spot 
which she mentioned ; and she had good reason for believ- 
ing so, as she had seen the red blood and the new grave, 
when she was a little girl, and ran home and mentioned 
it to her grandfather, who charged her as she valued her 
life never to mention that again, as it was only the nom- 
bles and hide of a deer which he himself had buried 
there. But when, twenty years subsequent to that, the 
wicked and unhappy Allan Sandison was found dead on 
that very spot, and lying across the green mound, then 
nearly level with the surface, which she had once seen a 
new grave, she then for the first time ever thought of 
a Divine Providence ; and she added, * ' For my grand- 
father, Neddy Haw, he dee 'd too ; there 's naebody kens 
how, nor ever shall." 

As they were quite incapable of conceiving from 
Marion's description anything of the spot, Mr. McMur- 
die caused her to be taken out to the Birky Brow in a 
cart, accompanied by Mr. Taylor and some hundreds of 
the town's folks; but whenever she saw it, she said, 
J ' Aha, birkies ! the haill kintra 's altered now. There 
was nae road here than; it gaed straight ower the tap 
o' the hill. An' let me see — there's the thorn where 
the cushats biggit ; an ' there 's the auld birk that I ance 

[215] 



THE SHORT STORY 



fell aff an' left my shoe sticking i' the cleft. I can tell 
ye, birkies, either the deer's grave or bonny Jane Ogil- 
vie's is no twa yards aff the place where that Horse's 
hind-feet are standing sae ye may howk, an' see if there 
be ony remains." 

The minister and McMurdie and all the people stared 
at one another, for they had purposely caused the horse 
to stand still on the very spot where both the father and 
son had been found dead. They digged, and deep, deep 
below the road they found part of the slender bones and 
skull of a young female, which they deposited decently 
in the church-yard. The family of the Sandisons is 
extinct, the Mysterious Bride appears no more on the 
Eve of St. Lawrence, and the wicked people of the great 
muckle village have got a lesson on divine justice written 
to them in lines of blood. 

STUDY NOTES 

Here is a tale written before men became conscious of 
the means which might be employed to advantage in 
story telling. Examine its structure. Compare it with 
a modern ghost story. Does it employ the greatest econ- 
omy of means? or are there episodes that might have 
been omitted without detracting from the effectiveness 
of the tale? 



[216] 



THE PRODIGAL SON 
Luke 15 :ll-32 

The Prodigal Son is one of the parables of Jesus. It is, 
of course, deliberate fiction told to make a great truth plain. 
No title was given for it, but this story is always called 
The Prodigal Son, though The Forgiving Father would be 
more appropriate. For a careful technical analysis of this 
story see Mr. Clayton Hamilton's Materials and Methods of 
Fiction, Chapter II, page 196. 

A certain man had two sons : and the younger of them 
said to his father, * ' Father, give me the portion of goods 
that falleth to me." And he divided unto them his 
living. 

And not many days after the younger son gathered 
all together, and took his journey into a far country, 
and there wasted his substance with riotous living. 

And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty 
famine in that land ; and he began to be in want. And 
he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; 
and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. 

And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks 
that the swine did eat : and no man gave unto him. 

And when he came to himself, he said, " How many 
hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to 
spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go 
to my father, and will say unto him, ' Father, I have 
sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more 
worthy to be called thy son : make me as one of thy hired 
servants.' " 

[217] 



THE SHORT STORY 



And he arose, and came to his father. 

But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw 
him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, 
and kissed him. 

And the son said unto him, " Father, I have sinned 
against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy 
to be called thy son." 

But the father said to his servants, " Bring forth the 
best robe, and put it on him ; and put a ring on his hand, 
and shoes on his feet: 

1 ' And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it ; and let 
us eat, and be merry: for this my son was dead, and is 
alive again ; he was lost, and is found. ' ' And they began 
to be merry. 

Now his elder son was in the field: and as he came 
and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. 
And he called one of the servants, and asked what these 
things meant. 

And he said unto him, ' ' Thy brother is come ; and thy 
father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received 
him safe and sound." 

And he was angry, and would not go in: therefore 
came his father out, and entreated him. And he answer- 
ing said to his father, ' ' Lo, these many years do I serve 
thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy command- 
ment ; and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might 
make merry with my friends : but as soon as this thy son 
was come, which hath devoured thy living . . . 
thou hast killed for him the fatted calf." 

And he said unto him, " Son, thou art ever with me, 
and all that I have is thine. 

" It was meet that we should make merry, and be 

[218] 



THE PRODIGAL SON 



glad : for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again ; 
and was lost, and is found.' ' 

STUDY NOTES 

Notice the economy of material in this story. Only 
three characters are used. Can any one of them be dis- 
pensed with? If this is just the story of a young man 
who repents for his waywardness, why not close the 
story with: " And they began to be merry? " There 
are only two incidents. Why not make several of his 
experiences in the " far country " ? Does the absence 
of ornamentation in the language, in elaboration of set- 
ting, in delineation of character, etc., make for, or detract 
from, the distinctness of the impression made by the 
theme? Can you think of any good effect that might 
have been produced by a fuller treatment of the story, 
which would not have weakened the impression of the 
theme ? 



[219] 



THE TAKING OF THE REDOUBT * 

By Prosper Merimee 

Prosper Merimee (1803-1870), the French novelist, critic, 
historian, and statesman, was born at Paris and died at 
Cannes. As a statesman he rose to the rank of senator in 
1853. As a historian he has a number of volumes to his credit. 
His novel Colurriba (1830) is pretty generally considered his 
best piece of fiction. 

A military friend of mine, who died of a fever in 
Greece a few years ago, told me one day about the first 
action in which he took part. His story made such an 
impression on me that I wrote it down from memory as 
soon as I had time. Here it is: 

I joined the regiment on the fourth of September, in 
the evening. I found the colonel in camp. He received 

me rather roughly ; but when he read General B 's 

recommendation, his manner changed, and he said a few 
courteous words to me. 

I was presented by him to my captain, who had just 
returned from a reconnaissance. This captain, with 
whom I hardly had time to become acquainted, was a 
tall, dark man, with a harsh, repellant face. He had 
been a private and had won his epaulets and his cross 
on the battlefield. His voice, which was hoarse and 
weak, contrasted strangely with his almost gigantic 
stature. I was told that he owed that peculiar voice to 

* Reprinted from Little French Masterpieces, with the con- 
sent of the publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons. 

[220] 



THE TAKING OF THE REDOUBT 

a bullet which had passed through his lungs at the battle 
of Jena. 

When he learned that I was fresh from the school at 
Fountainebleau, he made a wry face and said : 

" My lieutenant died yesterday." 

I understood that he meant to imply: " You ought 
to take his place, and you are not capable of it." 

A sharp retort came to my lips, but I restrained 
myself. 

The moon rose behind the redoubt of Cheverino, about 
two gunshots from our bivouac. It was large and red, 
as it usually is when it rises. But on that evening it 
seemed to me of extraordinary size. For an instant the 
redoubt stood sharply out in black against the brilliant 
disk of the moon. It resembled the crater of a volcano 
at the instant of an eruption. 

An old soldier, beside whom I happened to be, 
remarked upon the color of the moon. 

" It is very red, ' ' said he ; ' ' that 's a sign that it will 
cost us dear to take that famous redoubt! " 

I have always been superstitious, and that prophecy, 
at that particular moment especially, affected me. I lay 
down, but I could not sleep. I rose and walked about 
for some time, watching the tremendously long line of 
camp-fires that covered the heights above the village of 
Cheverino. 

When I thought that the fresh, sharp night air had 
cooled my blood sufficiently, I returned to the fire; I 
wrapped myself carefully in my cloak and closed my 
eyes, hoping not to open them before dawn. But sleep 
refused to come. Insensibly my thoughts took a gloomy 
turn. I said to myself that I had not a friend among the 

[221] 



THE SHORT STORY 



hundred thousand men who covered that plain. If I 
were wounded, I should be taken to a hospital and treated 
roughly by ignorant surgeons. All that I had heard of 
surgical operations came to my mind. My heart beat 
violently, and I instinctively arranged my handkerchief, 
and the wallet that I had in my breast pocket, as a sort 
of cuirass. I was worn out with fatigue, I nodded every 
moment, and every moment some sinister thought 
returned with renewed force and roused me with a 
start. 

But weariness carried the day, and when they beat the 
reveille, I was sound asleep. We were drawn up in bat- 
tle array, the roll was called, then we stacked arms, and 
everything indicated that we were to have a quiet day. 

About three o'clock an aide-de-camp appeared, bring- 
ing an order. We were ordered under arms again ; our 
skirmishers spread out over the plain ; we followed them 
slowly, and after about twenty minutes, we saw all the 
advanced posts of the Russians fall back and return 
inside the redoubt. 

A battery of artillery came into position at our right, 
another at our left, but both well in advance of us. They 
began a very hot fire at the enemy, who replied vigor- 
ously, and the redoubt of Cheverino soon disappeared 
beneath dense clouds of smoke. 

Our regiment was almost protected from the Russian 
fire by a rise in the ground. Their balls, which, indeed, 
were rarely aimed at us, for they preferred to fire at our 
gunners, passed over our heads, or, at the worst, spat- 
tered us with dirt and small stones. 

As soon as we received the order to advance, my cap- 
tain looked at me with a close scrutiny which compelled 

[222] 



THE TAKING OF THE REDOUBT 

me to run my hand over my budding moustache twice or 

thrice, as unconcernedly as I could. Indeed, I was not 

| frightened, and the only fear I had was that he should 

believe that I was frightened. Those harmless cannon- 

| balls helped to maintain me in my heroically calm frame 

of mind. My self-esteem told me that I was really in 

| danger, as I was at last under the fire of a battery. I 

was overjoyed to be so entirely at my ease, and I thought 

of the pleasure I should take in telling of the capture of 

the redoubt of Cheverino in Madame de B 's salon 

on Rue de Provence. 

The colonel passed our company ; he spoke to me : 

' ' Well, you are going to see some sharp work for your 
debut." 

I smiled with an altogether martial air as I brushed 
my coat sleeve, on which a shot that struck the ground 
thirty yards away had spattered a little dust. 

It seems that the Russians observed the ill success of 
their cannon-balls; for they replaced them with shells, 
which could more easily be made to reach us in the 
hollow where we were posted. A large piece of one took 
off my shako and killed a man near me. 

" I congratulate you," said my captain, as I picked 
up my shako ; ' ' you 're safe now for today. ' ' 

I was acquainted with the military superstition which 
believes that the axiom, Non bis in idem, has the same 
application on a field of battle as in a court of justice. 
I proudly replaced my shako on my head. 

" That is making a fellow salute rather unceremo- 
| niously," I said as gaily as I could. That wretched joke 
was considered first-rate, in view of the circumstances. 

" I congratulate you," continued the captain; " you 

[223] 



THE SHORT STORY 






will get nothing worse, and you will command a company 
this evening; for I feel that the oven is being heated 
for me. Every time that I have been wounded the 
officer nearest me has been hit by a spent ball; and," he 
added in a low tone and almost as if he were ashamed, 
" their names always began with a P." 

I feigned incredulity ; many men would have done the 
same ; many men, too, would have been, as I was, pro- 
foundly impressed by these prophetic words. Conscript 
as I was, I realized that I could not confide my sensations 
to any one, and that I must always appear cool and fear- 
less. 

After about half an hour the Russian fire sensibly 
diminished; thereupon we left our sheltered position to 
march upon the redoubt. 

Our regiment consisted of three battalions. The sec- 
ond was ordered to turn the redoubt on the side of the 
entrance ; the other two were to make the assault. I was 
in the third battalion. 

As we came out from behind the species of ridge which 
had protected us, we were received by several volleys of 
musketry, which did little damage in our ranks. 
The whistling of the bullets surprised me ; I kept turn- 
ing my head, and thus induced divers jests on the part 
of my comrades, who were more familiar with that 
sound. 

" Take it all in all," I said to myself, " a battle isn't 
such a terrible thing. ' ' 

Non bis in idem, never twice in the same place. 

We advanced at the double-quick, preceded by skir- 
mishers ; suddenly the Russians gave three hurrahs, three 
distinct hurrahs, then remained silent and ceased firing. 



[224] 



I THE TAKING OF THE REDOUBT 

I 

"I don 't like this silence, ' ' said my captain ; * * it bodes 
I us no good.'' . 

I considered that our men were a little too noisy, and 
I could not forbear making a mental comparison between 
! their tumultuous shouting and the enemy's impressive 
I silence. 

We speedily reached the foot of the redoubt; the 

palisades had been shattered and the earth torn up by 

! our balls. The soldiers rushed at these newly made 

ruins with shouts of " Vive l'Empereur! " louder than 

; one would have expected to hear from men who had 

already shouted so much. 

I raised my eyes, and I shall never forget the spec- 
tacle that I saw. The greater part of the smoke had 
risen, and hung like a canopy about twenty feet above 
the redoubt. Through a bluish haze one could see the 
Russian grenadiers behind their half-destroyed parapet, 
with arms raised, motionless as statues. It seems to 
me that I can see now each soldier, with his left eye 
fastened upon us, the right hidden by the levelled musket. 
In an embrasure, a few yards away, a man stood beside 
a cannon, holding a fusee. 

I shuddered, and I thought that my last hour had 
come. 

" The dance is going to begin," cried my captain. 
" Bonsoir! " 

Those were the last words I heard him utter. 

The drums rolled inside the redoubt. I saw all the 
muskets drop. I closed my eyes, and I heard a most 
appalling crash, followed by shrieks and groans. I 
opened my eyes, surprised to find myself still among the 
living. The redoubt was filled with smoke once more. I 

[225] 



THE SHORT STORY 



was surrounded by dead and wounded. My captain lay 
at my feet; his head had been shattered by a cannon- 
ball, and I was covered with his brains and his blood. 
Of all my company only six men and myself were left 
on our feet. 

This carnage was succeeded by a moment of stupe- 
faction. The colonel, placing his hat on the point of his 
sword, was the first to scale the parapet, shouting : ' ' Vive 
l'Empereur! " He was followed instantly by all the 
survivors. I have a very dim remembrance of what fol- 
lowed. We entered the redoubt; how, I have no idea. 
We fought hand to hand, amid smoke so dense that we 
could not see one another. I believe that I struck, for my 
sabre was all bloody. At last I heard shouts of 
" Victory! " and as the smoke grew less dense, I saw 
blood and corpses completely covering the surface of 
the redoubt. The guns especially were buried beneath 
piles of bodies. About two hundred men, in the French 
uniform, were standing about in groups, with no pretence 
of order, some loading their muskets, others wiping their 
bayonets. Eleven hundred Russian prisoners were with 
them. 

The colonel, covered with blood, was lying on a shat- 
tered caisson near the ravine. A number of soldiers 
were bustling about him. I approached. 

1 ' Where is the senior captain ? " he asked a sergeant. 

The sergeant shrugged his shoulders most expressively. 

1 1 And the senior lieutenant ? ' ' 

" Monsieur here, who arrived last night," said the 
sergeant, in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone. 

The colonel smiled bitterly. 

" Well, monsieur," he said, " you command in chief, 
[226] 



THE TAKING OF THE REDOUBT 

order the entrance to the redoubt to be strengthened with 
these wagons, for the enemy is in force ; but General C — 
will see that you are supported. ' ' 

1 ' Colonel, ' ' I said, ' ' are you severely wounded ? ' ' 
" Finished, my boy, but the redoubt is taken ! " 



[2271 



ON THE STAIRS * 
By Arthur Morrison 

Arthur Morrison (1863- ) is an English writer. His works 
consist of novels, stories, plays, and articles. On the Stairs 
is from a volume of stories entitled Tales of Mean Streets*. 

The house had been " genteel. " "When trade was 
prospering in the East End, and the ship-fitter or block- 
maker thought it no shame to live in the parish where 
his workshop lay, such a master had lived here. Now, 
it was a tall, solid, well-bricked, ugly house, grimy and 
paintless in the joinery, cracked and patched in the 
windows : where the front door stood open all day long ; 
and the womankind sat on the steps, talking of sickness 
and deaths and the cost of things ; and treacherous holes 
lurked in the carpet of road-soil on the stairs and in the 
passage. For when eight families live in a house, nobody 
buys a door-mat, and the street was one of those streets 
that are always muddy. It smelt, too, of many things, 
none of them pleasant (one was fried fish) ; but for all 
that it was not a slum. 

Three flights up, a gaunt woman with bare forearms 
stayed on her way to listen at a door which, opening, 
let out a warm, fetid waft from a close sick-room. A 
bent and tottering old woman stood on the threshold, 
holding the door behind her. 

* Copyrighted by Arthur Morrison. Reprinted from Tales 
of Mean Streets, by permission of the author. 

[228] 



ON THE STAIRS 



" An' is 'e no better now, Mrs. Curtis? " the gaunt 
' woman asked, with a nod at the opening. 

The old woman shook her head, and pulled the door 
closer. Her jaw wagged loosely in her withered chaps: 
j ' ' Nor won 't be ; till 'e 's gone. ' ' Then after a certain 
pause, " 'E's goin'," she said. 
' ' Don 't doctor give no 'ope ? ' ' 

" Lor' bless ye, I don't want to ast no doctors," Mrs. 
! Curtis replied, with something not unlike a chuckle. 
| " I've seed too many on 'em. The boy's a-goin', fast; 
j I can see that. An' then " — she gave the handle an- 
i other tug, and whispered — " he 's been called. ' ' She 
; nodded amain. " Three seprit knocks at the bed-head 
las' night; an' I know what that means! " 

The gaunt woman raised her brows, and nodded. ' ' Ah, 
well," she said, " we all on us comes to it some day, 
sooner or later. An ' it 's often a 'appy release. ' ' 

The two looked into space beyond each other, the elder 
with a nod and a croak. Presently the other pursued, 
" 'E's been a very good son, ain't 'e? " 

" Ay, ay, well enough son to me," responded the old 
woman, a little peevishly; " an' I'll 'ave 'im put away 
decent, though there's on'y the Union for me after. I 
can do that, thank Gawd ! ' ' she added, meditatively, as 
chin on fist she stared into the thickening dark over the 
stairs. 

" "When I lost my pore 'usband," said the gaunt 
woman, with a certain brightening, " I give 'im a 'an- 
some funeral. 'E was a Oddfeller, an' I got twelve 
pound. I 'ad a oak caufin an' a open 'earse. There was 
a kerridge for the fam'ly an' one for 'is mates — two 
'orses each, an' feathers, an' mutes; an' it went the 

[229] 



THE SHORT STORY 



furthest way round to the cimitry. l Wotever 'appens, 
Mrs. Manders,' says the undertaker, ' you'll feel as 
you've treated 'im proper; nobody can't reproach you 
over that.' An' they couldn't. 'E was a good 'usband 
to me, an' I buried 'im respectable. " 

The gaunt woman exulted. The old, old story of 
Manders 's funeral fell upon the other one's ears with a 
freshened interest, and she mumbled her gums rumi- 
nantly. ll Bob '11 'ave a 'ansome buryin', too," she said. 
" I can make it up, with the insurance money, an' this 
an' that. On'y I donno about mutes. It's a expense." 

In the East End, when a woman has not enough money 
to buy a thing much desired, she does not say so in 
plain words; she says the thing is an " expense," or a 
' ' great expense. ' ' It means the same thing, but it sounds 
better. Mrs. Curtis had reckoned her resources, and 
found that mutes would be an " expense." At a cheap 
funeral mutes cost half-a-sovereign and their liquor. 
Mrs. Manders said as much. 

1 ' Yus, yus, 'arf-a-sovereign, ' ' the old woman assented. 
Within, the sick man feebly beat the floor with a stick. 
"I'm a-comin'," she cried shrilly; " yus, 'arf-a-sover- 
eign, but it's a lot, an' I don't see W I'm to do it — 
not at present. ' ' She reached for the door-handle again, 
but stopped and added, by after-thought, " Unless I 
don't 'ave no plooms." 

" It 'ud be a pity not to 'ave plooms. I 'ad — " 

There were footsteps on the stairs : then a stumble and 
a testy word. Mrs. Curtis peered over into the gathering 
dark. " Is it the doctor, sir? " she asked. It was the 
doctor 's assistant ; and Mrs. Manders tramped up to the 
next landing as the door of the sick-room took him in. 

[230] 



ON THE STAIRS 



For five minutes the stairs were darker than ever. 
Then the assistant, a very young man, came out again, 
followed by the old woman with a candle. Mrs. Manders 
listened in the upper dark. " He's sinking fast," said 
the assistant. " He must have a stimulant. Dr. Mansell 
ordered port wine. Where is it f ' ' Mrs. Curtis mumbled 
dolorously. " I tell you he must have it," he averred 
with unprofessional emphasis (his qualification was only 
a month old). " The man can't take solid food, and his 
strength must be kept up somehow. Another day may 
make all the difference. Is it because you can't afford 
it? " " It's a expense — sich a expense, doctor," the 
old woman pleaded. " An* wot with 'arf -pints o' milk 
an' — " She grew inarticulate, and mumbled dismally. 

" But he must have it, Mrs. Curtis, if it's your last 
shilling : it 's the only way. If you mean you absolutely 
haven't the money — " and he paused a little awkwardly. 
He was not a wealthy young man — wealthy young men 
do not devil for East End doctors — but he was con- 
scious of a certain haul of sixpences at nap the night 
before ; and, being inexperienced, he did not foresee the 
career of persecution whereon he was entering at his 
own expense and of his own motion. He produced five 
shillings: " If you absolutely haven't the money, why 
— take this and get a bottle — good: not at a public- 
house. But mind, at once. He should have had it 
before. ' ' 

It would have interested him, as a matter of coinci- 
dence, to know that his principal had been guilty of the 
selfsame indiscretion — even the amount was identical — 
on that landing the day before. But, as Mrs. Curtis said 
nothing of this, he floundered down the stair and out 

[231] 



THE SHORT STORY 



into the wetter mud, pondering whether or not the 
beloved son of a Congregational minister might take full 
credit for a deed of charity on the proceeds of sixpenny- 
nap. But Mrs. Curtis puffed her wrinkles, and shook 
her head sagaciously as she carried in her candle. From 
the room came a clink as of money falling into a teapot. 
And Mrs. Manders went about her business. 

The door was shut, and the stair a pit of blackness. 
Twice a lodger passed down, and up and down, and still 
it did not open. Men and women walked on the lower 
nights, and out at the door, and in again. From the 
street a shout or a snatch of laughter floated up the pit. 
On the pavement footsteps rang crisper and fewer,, and 
from the bottom passage there were sounds of stagger 
and sprawl. A demented old clock buzzed divers hours 
at random, and was rebuked every twenty minutes by 
the regular tread of a policeman on his beat. Finally, 
somebody shut the street-door with a great bang, and the 
street was muffled. A key turned inside the door on 
the landing, but that was all. A feeble light shone for 
hours along the crack below, and then went out. The 
crazy old clock went buzzing on, but nothing left that 
room all night. Nothing that opened the door. . . . 

When next the key turned, it was to Mrs. Manders' 
knock, in the full morning; and soon the two women 
came out on the landing together, Mrs. Curtis with a 
shapeless clump of bonnet. ' ' Ah, 'e 's a lovely corpse, ' ' 
said Mrs. Manders. " Like wax. So was my 'usband." 

" I must be stirrm'," croaked the old woman, "an' 
go about the insurance an* the measurin' an' that. 
There 'slots to do." 

" Ah, there is. 'Oo are you gom* to 'ave — Wilkins? 

[232] 



ON THE STAIRS 



I 'ad Wilkins. Better than Kedge, I think: Kedge's 
mutes dresses rusty, an' their trousis is frayed. If you 
was thinkin' of 'avin' mutes — " 

1 * Yus, yus, ' ' — with a palsied nodding — ' ' I 'm a-goin ' 
to 'ave mutes : I can do it respectable, thank Gawd ! ' ' 

" And the plooms? " 

" Ay, yus, an' the plooms too. They ain't sich a great 
expense, after all." 



[233] 



THE HOUSE OPPOSITE * 
By Anthony Hope 

Anthony Hope Hawkins (1863- ) is a London lawyer, 

educated at Oxford. A few years ago he became suddenly 

famous as the author of the romantic popular novels, The 

Prisoner of Zenda and Rupert of Hentzau. The House Oppo- 

' site is from the volume of stories entitled The Dolly Dialogues. 

We were talking over the sad case of young Algy 
Groom; I was explaining to Mrs. Hilary exactly what 
had happened. 

" His father gave him," said I, " a hundred pounds, 
to keep him for three months in Paris while he learnt 
French." 

' ' And very liberal too, ' ' said Mrs. Hilary. 

" It depends where you dine," said I. " However, 
that question did not arise, for Algy went to the Grand 
Prix the day after he arrived — " 

' ' A horse-race ? ' ' asked Mrs. Hilary, with great con- 
tempt. 

" Certainly, the competitors are horses," I rejoined. 
" And there he, most unfortunately, lost the whole sum, 
without learning any French to speak of. ' ' 

1 ' How disgusting ! ' ' exclaimed Mrs. Hilary, and little 
Miss Phyllis gasped in horror. 

" Oh, well," said Hilary, with much bravery (as it 
struck me ) , " his father 's very well off. ' ' 

* Reprinted by permission from The Dolly Dialogues. Copy- 
right 1901 by Henry Holt and Company. 

[234] 



THE HOUSE OPPOSITE 



" That doesn't make it a bit better," declared his wife. 
" There's no mortal sin in a little betting, my dear. 
■ Boys will be boys — " ■ 

" And even that," I interposed, " wouldn't matter if 
i we could only prevent girls from being girls. ' ' 

Mrs. Hilary, taking no notice whatever of me, pro- 
nounced sentence. " He grossly deceived his father," 
! she said, and took up her embroidery. 

1 ' Most of us have grossly deceived our parents before 
now," said I. " "We should all have to confess to some- 
; thing of the sort." 

" I hope you're speaking for your own sex," observed 
j Mrs. Hilary. 

' ' Not more than yours, ' ' said I. ' ' You used to meet 
Hilary on the pier when your father wasn 't there — you 
| told me so. ' ' 

" Father had authorized my acquaintance with 
1 Hilary." 

" I hate quibbles," said I. 

There was a pause. Mrs. Hilary stitched: Hilary 
observed that the day was fine. 

" Now," I pursued carelessly, " even Miss Phyllis 
here has been known to deceive her parents. ' ' 

" Oh, let the poor child alone, anyhow," said Mrs. 
Hilary. 
" Haven't you? " said I to Miss Phyllis. 
I expected an indignant denial. So did Mrs. Hilary, 
for she remarked with a sympathetic air : 
' ' Never mind his folly, Phyllis dear. ' ' 
" Haven't you, Miss Phyllis? " said I. 
Miss Phyllis grew very red. Fearing that I was 
causing her pain, I was about to observe on the prospects 

[235] 



THE SHORT STORY 



of a Dissolution when a shy smile spread over Miss 
Phyllis' face. 

" Yes, once," said she, with a timid glance at Mrs. 
Hilary, who immediately laid down her embroidery. 

1 ' Out with it ! "I cried triumphantly. ' ' Come along, 
Miss Phyllis. We won't tell, honor bright ! " 

Miss Phyllis looked again at Mrs. Hilary. Mrs. Hilary 
is human. 

" Well, Phyllis dear/' said she, " after all this time 
I shouldn 't think it my duty — " 

' ' It only happened last summer, ' ' said Miss Phyllis. 

Mrs. Hilary looked rather put out. 

" Still," she began. 

' ' We must have the story, ' ' said I. 

Little Miss Phyllis put down the sock she had been 
knitting. 

" I was very naughty," she remarked. " It was my 
last term at school." 

' ' I know that age, ' ' said I to Hilary. 

" My window looked out toward the street. You're 
sure you won't tell? Well, there was a house oppo- 
site—" 

" And a young man in it," said I. 

1 ' How did you know that ? ' ' asked Miss Phyllis, blush- 
ing immensely. 

" No girls' school can keep up its numbers without 
one," I explained. 

■ ' Well, there was, anyhow, ' ' said Miss Phyllis. * ' And 
I and two other girls went to a course of lectures at the 
Town Hall on literature or something of that kind. We 
used to have a shilling given us for our tickets. ' ' 

" Precisely," said I. "A hundred pounds! " 

[236] 



THE HOUSE OPPOSITE 



" No, a shilling," corrected Miss Phyllis. " A hun- 
1 dred pounds! How absurb, Mr. Carter! Well, one day 
| I — I—" 

11 You're sure you wish to go on, Phyllis? " asked 
i Mrs. Hilary. 

' ' You 're afraid, Mrs. Hilary, ' ' said I, severely. 

" Nonsense, Mr. Carter. I thought Phyllis might — " 

" I don't mind going on," said Miss Phyllis, smiling. 

' ' One day I — I lost the other girls. ' ' 

' l The other girls are always easy to lose, ' ' I observed. 

* ' And on the way there — oh, you know, he went to 
the lectures. ' ' 

1 ' The young dog, ' ' said I, nudging Hilary. ' ' I should 
think he did!" 

1 1 On the way there it became rather — rather foggy. ' ' 

" Blessings on it! " I cried; for little Miss Phyllis' 
demure but roguish expression delighted me. 

1 ' And he — he found me in the fog. ' ' 

' ' What are you doing, Mr. Carter ? ' ' cried Mrs. 
Hilary, angrily. 

" Nothing, nothing," said I. I believe I had winked 
at Hilary. 

11 And — and we couldn't find the Town Hall." 

" Oh, Phyllis! " groaned Mrs. Hilary. 

Little Miss Phyllis looked alarmed for a moment. 
Then she smiled. 

" But we found the confectioner's," said she. 

1 ' The Grand Prix, ' ' said I, pointing my forefinger at 
Hilary. 

1 ' He had no money at all, ' ' said Miss Phyllis. 

11 It's ideal! " said I. 

1 ' And — and we had tea on — on — " 

[237] 



THE SHORT STORY 



1 ' The shilling ? " I cried in rapture. 

1 ' Yes, ' ' said little Miss Phyllis, ' ' on the shilling. And 
he saw me home. ' ' 

' ' Details, please, ' ' said I. 

Little Miss Phyllis shook her head. 

" And left me at the door." 

" Was it still foggy? " I asked. 

" Yes. Or he wouldn't have — " 

" Now what did he — ? " 

" Come to the door, Mr. Carter," said Miss Phyllis, 
with obvious wariness. ' ' Oh, it was such fun ! ' ' 

' ' I 'm sure it was. ' ' 

" No, I mean when we were examined in the lectures. 
I bought the local paper, you know, and read it up, and 
I got top marks easily, and Miss Green wrote to mother 
to say how well I had done. ' ' 

" It all ends most satisfactorily, ' ' I observed. 

" Yes, didn't it? " said little Miss PhyUis. 

Mrs. Hilary was grave again. 

il And you never told your mother, Phyllis! " she 
asked. 

" N-no, Cousin Mary," said Miss Phyllis. 

I rose and stood with my back to the fire. Little Miss 
Phyllis took up her sock again, but a smile still played 
about the corners of her mouth. 

1 ' I wonder, ' ' said I, looking up at the ceiling, ' ' what 
happened at the door." Then, as no one spoke, I 
added : 

1 ' Pooh ! I know what happened at the door. ' ' 

' ' I 'm not going to tell you anything more, ' ' said Miss 
Phyllis. 

" But I should like to hear it in your own — " 

[238] 



THE HOUSE OPPOSITE 



Miss Phyllis was gone ! She had suddenly risen and 
run from the room. 

1 1 It did happen at the door, ' ' said I. 

4 ' Fancy Phyllis ! ' ' mused Mrs. Hilary. 

" I hope," said I, " that it will be a lesson to you." 

11 I shall have to keep my eye on her," said Mrs. 
Hilary. 

11 You can't do it," said I, in easy confidence. I had 
no fear of little Miss Phyllis being done out of her 
recreations. " Meanwhile," I pursued, " the important 
thing is this : my parallel is obvious and complete. ' ' 

11 There's not the least likeness," said Mrs. Hilary, 
sharply. 

"As a hundred pounds are to a shilling, so is the 
Grand Prix to the young man opposite," I observed, 
taking my hat, and holding out my hand to Mrs. Hilary. 

" I am very angry with you," she said. " You've 
made the child think there was nothing wrong in it. ' ' 

" Oh! nonsense," said I. " Look how she enjoyed 
telling it." 

Then, not heeding Mrs. Hilary, I launched into an 
apostrophe. 

" Divine House Opposite! " I cried. " Charming 
House Opposite ! What is a man 's own dull uneventful 
home compared with that Glorious House Opposite ! If 
only I might dwell forever in the House Opposite ! ' ' 

1 ' I haven 't the least notion what you mean, ' ' remarked 
Mrs. Hilary, stiffly. " I suppose it's something silly — 
or worse." 

I looked at her in some puzzle. 

" Have you no longing for the House Opposite? " I 



[239] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Mrs. Hilary looked at me. Her eyes ceased to be abso- 
lutely blank. She put her arm through Hilary's and 
answered gently : 

1 ' I don 't want the House Opposite. ' ' 

" Ah," said I, giving my hat a brush, " but maybe 
you remember the House — when it was Opposite ? ' ' 

Mrs. Hilary, one arm still in Hilary's gave me her 
hand. 

She blushed and smiled. 

" Well," said she, " it was your fault: so I won't 
scold Phyllis." 

" No, don't, my dear," said Hilary, with a laugh. 

As for me, I went down-stairs, and, in absence of mind, 
bade my cabman drive to the House Opposite. But I 
have never got there. 

STUDY NOTE 

This is a story in the light, airy vein of The Dolly 
Dialogues and yet one characterized by a meaning, a 
theme, which makes it well worth while. 



[240] 



THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND * 
By A. Conan Doyle 

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859- ) is a Scotch physician, 
born in Edinburgh. He was educated in Edinburgh University 
both in the arts and in medicine. His university also gave 
him the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws. He was knighted 
in 1902. He began active life as a practicing physician, but 
after a few years devoted much of his time to writing fiction. 
His travels have been extensive and his interest in public 
affairs wide. The Boer War drew him to South Africa. 

Dr. Doyle began his literary work in 1887 with the publica- 
tion of A Study in Scarlet. His reputation as a literary man 
is largely due, however, to the application of literary methods 
to the detective story in the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes 
(1891). A second volume, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmeus, 
followed in 1893. Of his thirty or more novels, collections of 
stories, and plays a few of the best known are: Micah Clarke 
(1888), The Sign of the Four (1889), The White Company 
(1890), Uncle Bernac (1897), The Hound of the Baskervilles 
(1902), and The Return of Sherlock Holmes (1904). The 
Adventure of the Speckled Band, which follows, is one of the 
stories from the last named volume. 

In glancing over my notes of the seventy-odd cases in 
which I have, during the last eight years, studied the 
methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many 
tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but 
none commonplace ; for, working as he did rather for the 
love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he 
refused to associate himself with any investigation which 

* Copyrighted. Reprinted by permission of the author. 
[241] 



THE SHORT STORY 



did not tend toward the unusual, and even the fantastic. 
Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any 
which presented more singular features than that which 
was associated with the well-known Surrey family of 
the Koylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question 
occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, 
when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. 
It is possible that I might have placed them upon record 
before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, 
from which I have only been freed during the last month 
by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge 
was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should 
now come to light, for I have reasons to know that there 
are wide-spread rumors as to the death of Dr. Grimesby 
Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible 
than the truth. 

It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one 
morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, 
by the side of my bed. He was a late riser as a rule, 
and as the clock on the mantel-piece showed me that it 
was only a quarter past seven, I blinked up at him in 
some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for 
I was myself regular in my habits. 

" Very sorry to knock you up, "Watson," said he, 
" but it's the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson 
has been knocked up; she retorted upon me: and I on 
yon." 

' ' What is it, then — a fire ? " 

' - No ; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived 
in a considerable state of excitement, who insists upon 
seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, 
when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this 

[242] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 



hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out 

of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing 

' which they have to communicate. Should it prove to 

I be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to 
i follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that 

I I should call you and give you the chance. ' ' 

" My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything." 

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in 
! his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid 
j deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded 
on a logical basis, with which he unraveled the problems 
which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my 
clothes, and was ready in a few minutes to accompany 
my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in 
black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the 
window, rose as we entered. 

" Good-morning, madam," said Holmes, cheerily. 
" My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate 
friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can 
speak as freely as before myself. Ha ! — • I am glad to 
see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light 
the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a 
cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering. ' ' 

" It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the 
woman, in a low voice, changing her seat as requested. 

" What then? " 

"It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised 
her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was 
indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn 
and gray, with restless, frightened eyes, like those of 
some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those 
of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with pre- 

[243] 



THE SHORT STORY 



mature gray, and her expression was weary and haggard. 
Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all- 
comprehensive glances. 

" You must not fear," said he, soothingly, bending 
forward and patting her forearm. " We shall soon set 
matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by 
train this morning, I see." 

" You know me, then? " 

" No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket 
in the palm of your left glove. You must have started 
early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along 
heavy roads, before you reached the station. ' ' 

The lady gave a violent start, and stared in bewilder- 
ment at my companion. 

" There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, 
smiling. 

" The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud 
in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly 
fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws 
up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on 
the left-hand side of the driver." 

" Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly 
correct," said she. " I started from home before six, 
reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the 
first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no 
longer ; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to 
turn to — none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, 
poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, 
Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, 
whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was 
from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not 
think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a 

[244] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

little light through the dense darkness which surrounds 
me? At present it is out of my power to reward you 
for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall 
be married, with the control of my own income, and then 
at least you shall not find me ungrateful. ' ' 

Holmes turned to his desk, and unlocking it, drew 
out a small case-book, which he consulted. 

' i Farintosh, ' ' said he. ' * Ah, yes, I recall the case ; 
it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was 
before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that 
I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as 
I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession 
is its own reward ; but you are at liberty to defray what- 
ever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits 
you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us 
everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon 
the matter.' ' 

' l Alas ! ' ' replied our visitor, ' ' the very horror of my 
situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, 
and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, 
which might seem trivial to another, that even he, to 
whom of all others I have a right to look for help and 
advice, looks upon all that I tell him about it as the 
fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I 
can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. 
But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply 
into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You 
may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which 
encompass me." 

' ' I am all attention, madam. ' ' 

" My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my 
step-father, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest 

[245] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, 
on the western border of Surrey." 

Holmes nodded his head. " The name is familiar to 
me," said he. 

" The family was at one time among the richest in 
England, and the estates extended over the borders into 
Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In 
the last century, however, four successive heirs were of 
a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin 
was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of 
the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of 
ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is 
itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire 
dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life 
of an artistocratic pauper; but his only son, my step- 
father, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new 
conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which 
enabled him to take a medical degree, and went out to 
Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force 
of character, he established a large practice. In a fit 
of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had 
been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler 
to death, and narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As 
it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment, and 
afterward returned to England a morose and disap- 
pointed man. 

11 When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my 
mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Major-General 
Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I 
were twins, and we were only two years old at the time 
of my mother's remarriage. She had a considerable 
sum of money — not less than 1,000 pounds a year — 

[246] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

I and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while 
' we resided with him, with a provision that a certain 
! annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event 
i of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England 
| my mother died — she was killed eight years ago in a 
j railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then aban- 
j doned his attempts to establish himself in practice in 
i London, and took us to live with him in the old ancestral 
| house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother 
, had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed 
i to be no obstacle to our happiness. 

" But' a terrible change came over our step-father 
about this time. Instead of making friends and exchang- 
ing visits with our neighbors, who had at first been over- 
joyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in the old 
family seat, he shut himself up in his house, and seldom 
came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with 
whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper 
approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of 
the family, and in my step-father 's case it had, I believe, 
been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A 
series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which 
ended in the police-court, until at last he became the 
terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his ap- 
proach, for he is a man of immense strength, and abso- 
lutely uncontrollable in his anger. 

" Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a 
parapet into a stream ; and it was only by paying over all 
the money which I could gather together that I was able 
to avert another public exposure. He had no friends at 
all save the wandering gypsies, and he would give these 
vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bram- 

[247] 



THE SHORT STORY 



ble-covered land which represent the family estate, and 
would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, 
wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. 
He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent 
over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this 
moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely 
over his grounds, and are feared by the villagers almost 
as much as their master. 

" You can imagine from what I say that my poor 
sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives. 
No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we 
did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at 
the time of her death, and yet her hair had already 
begun to whiten, even as mine has. ' ' 

' ' Your sister is dead, then ? ' ' 

" She died just two years ago, and it is of her death 
that I wish to speak to you. You can understand that, 
living the life which I have described, we were little 
likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We 
had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss 
Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we 
were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady 's 
house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, 
and met there a half -pay major of marines, to whom 
she became engaged. My step-father learned of the 
engagement when my sister returned, and offered no 
objection to the marriage ; but within a fortnight of the 
day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible 
event occurred which has deprived me of my only com- 
panion. ' ' 

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair 
with his eyes closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but 

[248] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

I he half opened his lids now and glanced at his visitor. 

" Pray be precise as to details," said he. 

" It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that 
| dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor- 
| house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one 
I wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are 
on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the cen- 
tral block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first 
is Dr. Roylott's, the second my sister's, and the third 
my own. There is no communication between them, but 
they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make 
myself plain? " 

" Perfectly so." 

1 ' The windows of the three rooms open out upon the 
lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his 
room early, though we knew that he had not retired to 
rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the 
strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. 
She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where 
she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching 
wedding. At eleven o 'clock she rose to leave me, but she 
paused at the door and looked back. 

" ' Tell me, Helen,' said she, ' have you ever heard 
any one whistle in the dead of the night ? ' 

" ' Never,' said I. 

c ' * I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, your- 
self, in your sleep ? ' 

"■ ' Certainly not. But why? ' 

" ' Because during the last few nights I have always, 
about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. 
I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot 
tell where it came from — perhaps from the next room, 

[249] 



THE SHORT STORY 



perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask 
you whether you had heard it. ' 

1 ' ' No, I have not. It must be those wretched gypsies 
in the plantation.' 

" ■ Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I 
wonder that you did not hear it also. ■ 

1 ' ' Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you. ' 

" ■ Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate/ 
She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few 
moments later I heard her key turn in the lock. ' ' 

" Indeed/ ' said Holmes. " Was it your custom 
always to lock yourselves in at night ? ' ' 

" Always." 

" And why? " 

1 ' I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept 
a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of security 
unless our doors were locked. ' ' 

" Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement." 

" I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of 
impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, 
you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle 
are the links which bind two souls which are so closely 
allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling 
outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against 
the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the 
gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified 
woman. I knew that it was my sister 's voice. I sprang 
from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed 
into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to 
hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and 
a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of 
metal had fallen. As I ran down the passage my sis- 

[250] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

ter's door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its 
hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what 
was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor- 
lamp I saw my sister appear at the opening, her face 
blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her 
whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. 
I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that 
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the 
ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and 
her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought 
that she had not recognized me, but as I bent over her, 
she suddenly shrieked out, in a voice which I shall never 
forget: * Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! 
The speckled band! ' There was something else which 
she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger 
into the air in the direction of the doctor's room, but a 
fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I 
rushed out, calling loudly for my step-father, and I met 
him hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When 
he reached my sister's side she was unconscious, and 
though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for 
medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for 
she slowly sank and died without having recovered her 
consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved 
sister. ' ' 

" One moment," said Holmes; " are you sure about 
this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear 
to it? " 

" That was what the county coroner asked me at the 
inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it, and 
yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of an 
old house, I may possibly have been deceived." 

[251] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" Was your sister dressed? " 

" No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand 
was found the charred stump of a match, and in her left 
a match-box." 

" Showing that she had struck a light and looked 
about her when the alarm took place. That is impor- 
tant. And what conclusions did the coroner come to ? " 

11 He investigated the ease with great care, for Dr. 
Koylott's conduct had long been notorious in the county, 
but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of 
death. My evidence showed that the door had been 
fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were 
blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, 
which were secured every night. The walls were care- 
fully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round, 
and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the 
same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by 
four large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sis- 
ter was quite alone when she met her end. Besides, there 
were no marks of any violence upon her. ' ' 

" How about poison? " 

" The doctors examined her for it, but without suc- 
cess. ' ' 

" What do you think that this unfortunate lady died 
of, then? " 

' ' It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous 
shock, though what it was that frightened her I cannot 
imagine. ' ' 

' ' Were there gypsies in the plantation at the time ? ' ! 

" Yes, there are nearly always some there." 

1 ' Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a 
band — a speckled band ? ' ' 

[252] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

" Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the 
wild talk of delirium, sometimes that it may have referred 
to some band of people, perhaps to these very gypsies in 
the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted hand- 
kerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads 
might have suggested the strange adjective which she 
used." 

Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from 
being satisfied. 

" These are very deep waters," said he; " pray go on 
with your narrative." 

" Two years have passed since then, and my life had 
been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, how- 
ever, a dear friend, whom I have known for many years, 
has done me the honor to ask my hand in marriage. His 
name is Armitage — Percy Armitage — the second son 
of Mr. Armitage, of Crane "Water, near Reading. My 
step-father has offered no opposition to the match, and 
we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two 
days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of 
the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so 
that I have had to move into the chamber in which my 
sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she 
slept. 

Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night, as 
I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I sud- 
denly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle 
which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang 
up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the 
room. I was too shaken to go bed again, however, so I 
dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, 
got a dog-cart at the ' Crown Inn,' which is opposite, 

[253] 



THE SHORT STORY 



and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on 
this morning with the one object of seeing you and ask- 
ing your advice. " 

1 1 You have done wisely, ' ' said my friend. l ' But have 
you told me all? " 

" Yes, all.' ' 

* ' Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your 
step-father. ' ' 

" Why, what do you mean? " 

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace 
which fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor 's knee. 
Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a 
thumb, were printed upon the white wrist. 

1 ' You have been cruelly used, ' ' said Holmes. 

The lady colored deeply and covered over her injured 
wrist. " He is a hard man," she said, " and perhaps 
he hardly knows his own strength. ' ' 

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned 
his chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling 
fire. 

11 This is a very deep business," he said, at last. 
" There are a thousand details which I should desire to 
know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we 
have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke 
Moran today, would it be possible for us to see over these 
rooms without the knowledge of your step-father? " 

" As it happens, he spoke of coming into town today 
upon some most important business. It is probable that 
he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing 
to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she 
is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the 
way." 

[254] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

" Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Wat- 
son? " 

" By no means." 

" Then we shall both come. What are you going to 
do yourself ? ' ' 

" I have one or two things which I would wish to do 
now that I am in town. But I shall return by the 
twelve o'clock train, so as to be there in time for your 
coming. ' ' 

" And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I 
have myself some small business matters to attend to. 
Will you not wait and breakfast ? ' ' 

" No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since 
I have confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward 
to seeing you again this afternoon.' ' She dropped her 
thick black veil over her face and glided from the room. 

" And what do you think of it all, Watson? " asked 
Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair. 

" It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister busi- 
ness. ' ' 

1 1 Dark enough and sinister enough. ' ' 

1 ' Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring 
and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and 
chimney are impassable, then her sister must have been 
undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end." 

1 ' What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and 
what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman ? ' ' 

1 1 I cannot think. ' ' 

' ' When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the 
presence of a band of gypsies who are on intimate terms 
with this old doctor, the fact that we have every reason 
to believe the doctor has an interest in preventing his 

[255] 



THE SHORT STORY 



step-daughter's marriage, the dying allusion to a band, 
and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a 
metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of 
those metal bars which secured the shutters falling back 
into its place, I think that there is good ground to 
think that the mystery may be cleared along those 
lines." 

" But what, then, did the gypsies do? " 

" I cannot imagine." 

" I see many objections to any such theory. " 

" And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that 
we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see 
whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be 
explained away. But what in the name of the devil ! ' ' 

The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion 
by the fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, 
and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. 
His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional 
and of the agricultural, having a black top -hat, a long 
frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting- 
crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat 
actually brushed the cross-bar of the doorway, and his 
breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A 
large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned 
yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, 
was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep- 
set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave 
him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of 
prey. 

" "Which of you is Holmes? " asked this apparition. 

"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," 
said my companion, quietly. 

[256] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 



" I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran." 

' ' Indeed, doctor, ' ' said Holmes, blandly. l ' Pray take 
a seat." 

11 I will do nothing of the kind. My step- daughter 
' has been here. I have traced her. "What has she been 
j saying to you ? ' ' 

" It is a little cold for the time of the year," said 
I Holmes. 

" What has she been saying to you? " screamed the 
J old man, furiously. 

" But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," 
| continued my companion, imperturbably. 

1 ' Ha ! You put me off, do you ? ' ' said our new visi- 
tor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. 
" I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you 
before. You are Holmes, the meddler. ' ' 

My friend smiled. 

1 ' Holmes, the busybody ! ' f 

His smile broadened. 

' ' Holmes, the Scotland-yard Jack-in-office ! ' ' 

Holmes chuckled heartily. " Your conversation is 
most entertaining," said he. " When you go out, close 
the door, for there is a decided draught. ' ' 

11 I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare 
to meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner 
has been here. I traced her ! I am a dangerous man to 
fall foul of! See here." He stepped swiftly forward, 
seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge 
brown hands. 

" See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he 
snarled ; and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace, 
he strode out of the room. 

[257] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, 
laughing. " I am not quite so bulky, but if he had 
remained I might have shown him that my grip was not 
much more feeble than his own. " As he spoke he picked 
up the steel poker, and with a sudden effort straightened 
it out again. 

1 * Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with 
the official detective force! This incident gives zest to 
our investigation, however, and I only trust that our lit- 
tle friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allow- 
ing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall 
order breakfast, and afterward I shall walk down to 
Doctors ' Commons, where I hope to get some data which 
may help us in this matter. " 

It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes 
returned from his excursion. He held in his hand a 
sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures. 

' ' I have seen the will of the deceased wife, ' ' said he. 
1 * To determine its exact meaning I have been obliged to 
work out the present prices of the investments with which 
it is concerned. The total income, which at the time of 
the wife's death was little short of 1,100 pounds, is now, 
through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than 
750 pounds. Each daughter can claim an income of 250 
pounds, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, 
that if both girls had married, this beauty would have 
had a mere pittance, while even one of them would crip- 
ple him to a very serious extent. My morning's work 
has not been wasted, since it has proved that he had the 
very strongest motives for standing in the way of any- 
thing of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious 
for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we 

[258] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are 
ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I 
should be very much obliged if you would slip your 
revolver into your pocket. An Eley's No. 2 is an excel- 
lent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers 
into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that 
we need." 

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train 
for Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station 
inn, and drove for four or five miles through the lovely 
Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun 
and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and 
wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green 
shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the 
moist earth. To me at least there was a strange con- 
trast between the sweet promise of the spring and this 
sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My com- 
panion sat in front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat 
pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his 
breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, how- 
ever, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed 
over the meadows. 

1 1 Look there ! ' ' said he. 

A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle 
slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point. From 
amid the branches there jutted out the gray gables and 
high roof -tree of a very old mansion. 

" Stoke Moran? " said he. 

* ' Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Koylott, ' ' 
remarked the driver. 

" There is some building going on there," said Holmes; 
1 * that is where we are going. ' ' 

[259] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" There's the village/ ' said the driver, pointing to a 
cluster of roofs some distance to the left; " but if you 
want to get to the house, you'll find it shorter to get over 
this stile, and so by the foot-path over the fields. There 
it is, where the lady is walking. ' ' 

11 And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed 
Holmes, shading his eyes. * * Yes, I think we had better 
do as you suggest." 

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back 
on its way to Leatherhead. 

" I thought it as well," said Holmes, as we climbed 
the stile, " that this fellow should think we had come 
here as architects or on some definite business. It may 
stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see 
that we have been as good as our word. ' ' 

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet 
us with a face which spoke her joy. " I have been wait- 
ing so eagerly for you ! ' ' she cried, shaking hands with 
us warmly. ' ' All has turned out splendidly. Dr. Roy- 
lott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be 
back before evening. ' ' 

" We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's 
acquaintance," said Holmes, and in a few words he 
sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner turned 
white to the lips as she listened. 

" Good heavens! " she cried, " he has followed me, 
then." 

" So it appears." 

1 ' He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe 
from him. What will he say when he returns ? ' ' 

11 He must guard himself, for he may find that there 
is some one more cunning than himself upon his track. 

[260] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 



You must lock yourself up from him tonight. If he is 
violent, we shall take you away to your aunt's at Har- 
row. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so 
kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to 
examine. ' ' 

The building was of gray, lichen-blotched stone, with 
a high central portion, and two curving wings, like the 
claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In one of these 
wings the windows were broken, and blocked with 
wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a 
picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better 
repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively mod- 
ern, and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke 
curling up from the chimneys, showed that this was 
where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been 
erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had 
been broken into, but there were no signs of any work- 
men at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly 
up and down the ill-trimmed lawn, and examined with 
deep attention the outsides of the windows. 

11 This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you 
used to sleep, the center one to your sister's, and the 
one next to the main building to Dr. Roylott's cham- 
ber? " 

" Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle 
one." 

" Pending the alterations, as I understand. By-the- 
way, there does not seem to be any very pressing need 
for repairs at that end wall." 

" There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to 
move me from my room." 

" Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of 

[261] 



THE SHORT STORY 



this narrow wing runs the corridor from which these 
three rooms open. There are windows in it, of course ? ' ' 

11 Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for any one 
to pass through. " 

1 ' As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms 
were unapproachable from that side. Now, would you 
have the kindness to go into your room and bar your 
shutters. ' ' 

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful exam- 
ination through the open window, endeavored in every 
way to force the shutter open, but without success. 
There was no slit through which a knife could be passed 
to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the 
hinges, but they were of solid iron, built firmly into the 
massive masonry. ' ' Hum ! ' ' said he, scratching his chin 
in some perplexity ; c - my theory certainly presents some 
difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they 
were bolted. "Well, we shall see if the inside throws any 
light upon the matter.' ' 

A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor 
from which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused 
to examine the third chamber, so we passed at once to 
the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, 
and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was 
a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping 
fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A 
brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow 
white-counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table 
on the left-hand side of the window. These articles, 
with two small wickerwork chairs, made up all the fur- 
niture in the room, save for a square of "Wilton carpet 
in the center. The boards round and the paneling of 

[262] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and 
discolored that it may have dated from the original build- 
ing of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into 
a corner and sat silent, while his eyes traveled round and 
round and up and down, taking in every detail of the 
apartment. 

1 ' Where does that bell communicate with ? ' ' he asked, 
at last, pointing to a thick bell-rope which hung down 
beside the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow. 
1 ' It goes to the housekeeper 's room. ' ' 
11 It looks newer than the other things? " 
1 ' Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago. ' ' 
' ' Your sister asked for it, I suppose ? ' ' 
1 ' No, I never heard of her using it. We used always 
to get what we wanted for ourselves. " 

" Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell- 
pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while 
I satisfy myself as to this floor. " He threw himself 
down upon his face with his lens in his hand, and crawled 
swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the 
cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with 
the wood-work with which the chamber was paneled. 
Finally he walked over to the bed, and spent some time 
in staring at it, and in running his eye up and down the 
wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave 
it a brisk tug. 

* ' Why, it 's a dummy, ' ' said he. 
" Won't it ring? " 

" No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very 
interesting. You can see now that it is fastened to a 
hook just above where the little opening for the ven- 
tilator is." 

[263] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" How very absurd! I never noticed that before." 

" Very strange! " muttered Holmes, pulling at the 
rope. ' * There are one or two very singular points about 
this room. For example, what a fool a builder must be 
to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the 
same trouble, he might have communicated with the out- 
side air! " 

1 ' That is also quite modern, ' ' said the lady. 

" Done about the same time as the bell-rope? " 
remarked Holmes. 

" Yes, there were several little changes carried out 
about that time." 

" They seem to have been of a most interesting char- 
acter — dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not 
ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall 
now carry our researches into the inner apartment." 

Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that 
of his step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A 
camp-bed, a small wooden shelf full of books, mostly of 
a technical character, an arm-chair beside the bed, a 
plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table, and 
a large iron safe were the principal things which met 
the eye. 

Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and 
all of them with the keenest interest. 

" What's in here? " he asked, tapping the safe. 

" My step-father's business papers." 

" Oh, you have seen inside, then? " 

1 ' Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was 
full of papers. ' ' 

" There isn't a cat in it, for example? " 

" No. What a strange idea! " 
[264] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

I 

1 * Well, look at this ! ' ' He took up a small saucer of 
I milk which stood on the top of it. 

* ' No ; we don 't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah 
| and a baboon. ' ' 

1 ' Ah, yes, of course ! Well, a cheetah is just a big 

| cat, and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in 

satisfying its wants, I dare say. There is one point 

which I should wish to determine." He squatted down 

in front of the wooden chair, and examined the seat of 

! it with the greatest attention. 

" Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising 
, and putting his lens in his pocket. ' ' Hello ! — Here is 
something interesting ! ' ' 

The object which had caught his eye was a small dog- 
lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, 
was curled upon itself, and tied so as to make a loop of 
whip-cord. 
" What do you make of that, Watson? " 
1 ' It 's a common enough lash. But I don 't know why 
it should be tied. ' ' 

" That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's 
a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains 
to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen 
enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission we 
shall walk out upon the lawn. ' ' 

I had never seen my friend 's face so grim or his brow 
so dark as it was when we turned from the scene of this 
investigation. We had walked several times up and down 
the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break 
in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his 
I reverie. 

" It is very essential, Miss Stoner,' ' said he, " that 

! [ 265 ] 

i 
i 

! 



THE SHORT STORY 



you should absolutely follow my advice in every 
respect.' ' 

' ' I shall most certainly do so. ' ' 

" The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your 
life may depend upon your compliance. ' ' 

" I assure you that I am in your hands.' ' 

" In the first place, both my friend and I must spend 
the night in your room." 

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonish- 
ment. 

1 ' Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that 
that is the village inn over there? " 

" Yes, that is the ' Crown.' " 

" Very good. Your windows would be visible from 
there? " 

" Certainly." 

" You must confine yourself to your room, on pre- 
tense of a headache, when your step-father comes back. 
Then when you hear him retire for the night, you must 
open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put 
your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw 
quietly with everything which you are likely to want 
into the room which you used to occupy. I have no 
doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage 
there for one night." 

" Oh, yes, easily." 

" The rest you will leave in our hands." 

" But what will you do? " 

" We shall spend the night in your room, and we 
shall investigate the cause of this noise which has dis- 
turbed you." 

" I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made 

[266] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

up your mind," said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon 
my companion's sleeve. 

" Perhaps I have." 

" Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause 
of my sister's death." 

" I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I 
speak." 

' ' You can at least tell me whether my own thought is 
correct, and if she died from some sudden fright. ' ' 

1 ' No, I do not think so. I think that there was proba- 
bly some more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, 
we must leave you, for if Dr. Roylott returned and saw 
us, our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and be 
brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may 
rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers 
that threaten you. ' ' 

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a 
bedroom and sitting-room at the " Crown Inn." They 
were on the upper floor, and from our window we could 
command a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhab- 
ited wing of Stoke Moran Manor-House. At dusk we 
saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form 
looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove 
him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing 
the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the 
doctor's voice, and saw the fury with which he shook 
his clenched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few 
minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among 
the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting- 
rooms. 

" Do you know, "Watson," said Holmes, as we sat 
together in the gathering darkness, " I have really some 

[267] 



THE SHORT STORY 



scruples as to taking you tonight. There is a distinct 
element of danger. ' ' 

" Can I be of assistance? " 

1 ' Your presence might be invaluable. ' ' 

* * Then I shall certainly come. ' ' 

11 It is very kind of you. ' ' 

' ' You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more 
in these rooms than was visible to me. ' ' 

" No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little 
more. I imagine that you saw all that I did." 

" I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and 
what purpose that could answer I confess is more than I 
can imagine." 

' ' You saw the ventilator, too ? ' ' 

" Yes, but I do not' think that it is such a very unusual 
thing to have a small opening between two rooms. It 
was so small that a rat could hardly pass through. ' ' 

" I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever 
we came to Stoke Moran." 

" My dear Holmes ! " 

1 ' Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she 
said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. 
Now, of course, that suggested at once that there must 
be a communication between the two rooms. It could 
only be a small one, or it would have been remarked 
upon at the coroner's inquiry. I deduced a venti- 
lator." 

" But what harm can there be in that? " 

1 ' "Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. 
A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who 
sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you ? ' ' 

" I cannot as yet see any connection." 

[268] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

" Did you observe anything very peculiar about that 
bed? " 

" No." 

1 ' It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed 
fastened like that before ? ' ' 

" I cannot say that I have." 

11 The lady could not move her bed. It must always 
be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to 
the rope — for so we may call it, since it was clearly 
never meant for a bell-pull. ,, 

" Holmes," I cried, " I seem to see dimly what you 
are hinting at! We are only just in time to prevent 
some subtle and horrible crime." 

' ' Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor 
does go wrong, he is the first of criminals. He has nerve 
and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were 
among the heads of their profession. This man strikes 
even deeper ; but I think, Watson, that we shall be able 
to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough 
before the night is over ; for goodness ' sake let us have a 
quiet pipe, and turn our minds for a few hours to some- 
thing more cheerful." 

About nine o'clock the light among the trees was 
extinguished, and all was dark in the direction of the 
Manor-House. Two hours passed slowly away, and then, 
suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright 
light shone out in front of us. 

" That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his 
feet; " it comes from the middle window." 

As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the 
landlord, explaining that we were going on a late visit to 

[269] 



THE SHORT STORY 



an acquaintance, and that it was possible that we might 
spend the night there. A moment later we were out on 
the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one 
yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom 
to guide us on our sombre errand. 

There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for 
unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Mak- 
ing our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, 
crossed it, and were about to enter through the window, 
when out from a clump of laurel-bushes there darted 
what seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who 
threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs, and 
then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness. 

" My God! " I whispered; " did you see it? " 

Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His 
hand closed like a vise upon my wrist in his agitation. 
Then he broke into a low laugh, and put his lips to my 
ear. 

"It is a nice household," he murmured. " That is 
the baboon. " 

I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor 
affected. There was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might 
find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I confess 
that I felt easier in my mind when, after following 
Holmes' example and slipping off my shoes, I found 
myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly 
closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and 
cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen 
it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making 
a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again 
so gently that it was all that I could do to distinguish 
the words: 

[270] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

" The least sound would be fatal to our plans." 

I nodded to show that I had heard. 

I I We must sit without light. He would see it through 
the ventilator." 

I nodded again. 

" Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon 
it. Have your pistol ready in case we should need it. 
I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair. ' ' 

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of 
the table. 

Holmes had brought up a long, thin cane, and this he 
placed upon the bed beside him. By it he laid the box 
of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he turned 
down the lamp, and we were left in darkness. 

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could 
not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and 
yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed, within a 
few feet of me, in the same state of nervous tension in 
which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray 
i of light, and we waited in absolute darkness. From out- 
side came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once 
at our very window a long-drawn, cat-like whine, which 
told us that the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far 
away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, 
which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long 
they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one 
and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for 
whatever might befall. 

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up 

in the direction of the ventilator, which vanished imme- 

| diately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of burning 

oil and heated metal. Some one in the next room had 

[271] 



THE SHORT STORY 



lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of move- 
ment, and then all was silent once more, though the 
smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with strain- 
ing ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible 
— a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet 
of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant 
that we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a 
match, and lashed furiously with his cane at the bell- 
pull. 

' ' You see it, Watson ? ' ' he yelled. ' ' You see it 1 " 

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes 
struck the light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sud- 
den glare flashing into my weary eyes made it impossible 
for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed so 
savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly 
pale, and filled with horror and loathing. 

He had ceased to strike, and was gazing up at the ven- 
tilator, when suddenly there broke from the silence of 
the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever 
listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell 
of pain and fear and anger all mingled in the one dread- 
ful shriek. They say that away down in the village, and 
even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the sleep- 
ers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and 
I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last 
echoes of it had died away into the silence from which it 
rose. 

* ' What can it mean ? " I gasped. 

" It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. 
" And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your 
pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott's room." 

With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way 

[272] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 

down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door 
without any reply from within. Then he turned the 
handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol 
in my hand. 

It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the 
table stood a dark-lantern with the shutter half open, 
throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, the 
door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden 
chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott, clad in a long gray 
dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and 
his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across 
his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we 
had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked 
upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare 
at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a 
peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which 
seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we 
entered he made neither sound nor motion. 

1 ' The band ! the speckled band ! ' ' whispered Holmes. 

I took a step forward. In an instant his strange head- 
gear began to move, and there reared itself from among 
his hair the squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck 
of a loathsome serpent. 

" It is a swamp adder ! ' ' cried Holmes ; ' ' the dead- 
liest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of 
being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the 
violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs 
for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its 
den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place 
of shelter, and let the county police know what has hap- 
pened." 

As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the 

[273] 



THE SHORT STORY 



dead man's lap, and throwing the noose round the rep- 
tile's neck, he drew it from its horrid perch, and carry- 
ing it at arm 's-length, threw it into the iron safe, which 
he closed upon it. 

Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby 
Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I 
should prolong a narrative which has already run to too 
great a length, by telling how we broke the sad news to 
the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning 
train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the 
slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion 
that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing 
with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to 
learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we 
traveled back next day. 

" I had," said he, " come to an entirely erroneous 
conclusion, which shows, my dear Watson, how danger- 
ous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The 
presence of the gypsies, and the use of the word ' band, ' 
which was used by the poor girl, no doubt to explain the 
appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of 
by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon 
an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit 
that I instantly reconsidered my position when, how- 
ever, it became clear to me that whatever danger threat- 
ened an occupant of the room could not come either from 
the window or the door. My attention was speedily 
drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ven- 
tilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. 
The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed 
was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the sus- 

[274] 



ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 



| picion that the rope was there as bridge for something 
passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The 
I idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I 
i coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was f ur- 
i nished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt 
I that I was probably on the right track. The idea of 
| using a form of poison which could not possibly be dis- 
covered by any chemical test was just such a one as 
| would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had 
jan Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a 
| poison would take effect would also, from his point of 
' view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coro- 
ner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark 
punctures which would show where the poison fangs 
had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. 
Of course he must recall the snake before the morning 
light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, proba- 
! bly by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to 
I him when summoned. He would put it through this 
ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the 
certainty that it would crawl down the rope and land 
on the bed. It might not bite the occupant, perhaps she 
might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later 
she must fall a victim. 

" I had come to these conclusions before ever I had 
entered his room. An inspection of his chair showed 
me that he had been in the habit of standing on it, which 
of course would be necessary in order that he should 
reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer 
of milk, and the loop of whip-cord were enough to finally 
dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metal- 
lic clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by 

[275] 



THE SHORT STORY 



her step-father hastily closing the door of his safe upon 
its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, 
you know the steps which I took in order to put the 
matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss, as I have 
no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the light 
and attacked it." 

' ' With the result of driving it through the ventila- 
tor." 

11 And also with the result of causing it to turn upon 
its master at the other side. Some of the blows of my 
cane came home, and roused its snakish temper, so that 
it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no 
doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott's 
death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very 
heavily upon my conscience." 



[276] 



WILL 0' THE MILL* 
By Robert Louis Stevenson 

Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson (1850-1894) was one of 
few masters of English prose of recent times. He was born 
in Edinburgh, Scotland, the son of Robert Stevenson, a noted 
civil engineer. He was educated for the law in Edinburgh 
University, but intended from the beginning to be a literary 
man. His literary work consists of novels, stories, lyric 
poems, essays, travels, and letters. His chief novels are 
Treasure Island (1883), Prince Otto (1885), Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Hyde (1886), The Black Arrow (1888), The Master of 
Ballantrae (1889), The Wrecker (1891-92), David Balfour 
(1893), The Ebb Tide (1894), St. Ives (unfinished but com- 
pleted by A. T. Quiller-Couch in 1897), and Weir of Hermiston 
(unfinished). 

I 

THE PLAIN AND THE STARS 

The Mill where Will lived with his adopted parents 
stood in a falling valley between pinewoods and great 
mountains. Above, hill after hill soared upwards until 
they soared out of the depth of the hardiest timber, and 
stood naked against the sky. Some way up, a long gray 
village lay like a seam or a rag of vapor on a wooded 
hillside; and when the wind was favorable, the sound 
of the church bells would drop down, thin and silvery, 
to Will. Below, the valley grew ever steeper and steeper, 

* Reprinted from the Biographical Edition of the Com- 
plete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, with the consent of 
the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons. 

[277] 



THE SHORT STORY 



and at the same time widened out on either hand; andi 
from an eminence beside the mill it was possible to see- 
its whole length and away beyond it over a wide plain, 
where the river turned and shone, and moved on fromi 
city to city on its voyage towards the sea. It chanced 
that over this valley there lay a pass into a neighboring ;, 
kingdom; so that, quiet and rural as it was, the road; 
that ran along beside the river was a high thoroughfare 
between two splendid and powerful societies. All, 
through the summer, traveling-carriages came crawling 
up, or went plunging briskly downwards past the mill; 
and as it happened that the other side was very much; 
easier of ascent, the path was not much frequented, 
except by people going in one direction; and of all the 
carriages that Will saw go by, five-sixths were plunging 
briskly downwards and only one-sixth crawling up. 
Much more was this the case with foot-passengers. All 
the light-footed tourists, all the peddlers laden with 
strange wares, were tending downward like the river 
that accompanied their path. Nor was this all ; for ; 
when Will was yet a child a disastrous war arose over a 
great part of the world. The newspapers were full of 
defeats and victories, the earth rang with cavalry hoofs, 
and often for days together and for miles around the 
coil of battle terrified good people from their labors in 
the field. Of all this, nothing was heard for a long 
time in the valley; but at last one of the commanders 
pushed an army over the pass by forced marches, and 
for three days horse and foot, cannon and tumbril, drum 
and standard, kept pouring downward past the mill. 
All day the child stood and watched them on their 
passage — the rhythmical stride, the pale, unshaven faces 

[278] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



tanned about the eyes, the discolored regimentals and 
the tattered flags, filled him with a sense of weariness, 
pity, and wonder; and all night long, after he was in 
bed, he could hear the cannon pounding and the feet 
trampling, and the great armament sweeping onward and 
downward past the mill. No one in the valley ever 
heard the fate of the expedition, for they lay out of the 
way of gossip in those troublous times; but Will saw 
one thing plainly, that not a man returned. Whither 
had they all gone? Whither went all the tourists and 
peddlers with strange wares? whither all the brisk 
barouches with servant in the dicky? whither the water 
of the stream, ever coursing downward and ever renewed 
from above ? Even the wind blew oftener down the val- 
ley, and carried the dead leaves along with it in the fall. 
It seemed like a great conspiracy of things animate and 
inanimate; they all went downward, fleetly and gaily 
downward, and only he, it seemed, remained behind, like 
a stock upon the wayside. It sometimes made him glad 
when he noticed how the fishes kept their heads up 
stream. They, at least, stood faithfully by him, while 
all else were posting downward to the unknown world. 

One evening he asked the miller where the river 
went. 

* - It goes down the valley, ' ' answered he, ' ' and turns 
a power of mills — six score mills, they say, from here 
to Unterdeck — and is none the wearier after all. And 
then it goes out into the lowlands, and waters the great 
corn country, and runs through a sight of fine cities (so 
they say) where kings live all alone in great palaces, 
with a sentry walking up and down before the door. 
And it goes under bridges with stone men upon them, 

[279] 



THE SHORT STORY 



looking down and smiling so curious at the water, and 
living folks leaning their elbows on the wall and looking 
over, too. And then it goes on and on, and down through 
marshes and sands, until at last it falls into the sea, 
where the ships are that bring parrots and tobacco from 
the Indies. Ay, it has a long trot before it as it goes 
singing over our weir, bless its heart ! ' ' 

" And what is the sea? " asked Will. 

' ' The sea ! ' ' cried the miller. ' ' Lord help us all, 
it is the greatest thing God made! That is where all 
the water in the world runs down into a great salt lake. 
There it lies, as flat as my hand and as innocent-like as 
a child; but they do say when the wind blows it gets up 
into water-mountains bigger than any of ours, and swal- 
lows down great ships bigger than our mill, and makes 
such a roaring that you can hear it miles away upon 
the land. There are great fish in it five times bigger 
than a bull, and one old serpent as long as our river and 
as old as all the world, with whiskers like a man, and a 
crown of silver on her head. ' ' 

Will thought he had never heard anything like this, 
and he kept on asking question after question about the 
world that lay away down the river, with all its perils 
and marvels, until the old miller became quite interested 
himself, and at last took him by the hand and led him 
to the hilltop that overlooks the valley and the plain. 
The sun was near setting, and hung low down in a 
cloudless sky. Everything was defined and glorified in 
golden light. Will had never seen so great an expanse 
of country in his life; he stood and gazed with all his 
eyes. He could see the cities, and the woods and fields, 
and the bright curves of the river, and far away to 

[280] 



WILL O* THE MILL 



where the rim of the plain trenched along the shining 

i heavens. An over-mastering emotion seized upon the 

boy, soul and body; his heart beat so thickly that he 

| could not breathe ; the scene swam before his eyes ; the 

sun seemed to wheel round and round, and throw off, as 

fit turned, strange shapes which disappeared with the 

i rapidity of thought, and were succeeded by others. Will 

covered his face with his hands, and burst into a violent 

fit of tears ; and the poor miller, sadly disappointed and 

perplexed, saw nothing better for it than to take him up 

j in his arms and carry him home in silence. 

From that day forward Will was full of new hopes 
and longings. Something kept tugging at his heart- 
strings ; the running water carried his desires along with 
l it as he dreamed over its fleeting surface; the wind, as 
it ran over innumerable tree-tops, hailed him with 
encouraging words; branches beckoned downward; the 
open road, as it shouldered round the angles and went 
turning and vanishing fast and faster down the valley, 
! tortured him with its solicitations. He spent long whiles 
I on the eminence, looking down the rivershed and abroad 
on the flat lowlands, and watched the clouds that traveled 
I forth upon the sluggish wind and trailed their purple 
I shadows on the plain ; or he would linger by the wayside, 
I and follow the carriages with his eyes as they rattled 
downward by the river. It did not matter what it was ; 
everything that went that way, were it cloud or car- 
riage, bird or brown water in the stream, he felt his 
heart flow out after it in an ecstasy of longing. 

We are told by men of science that all the ventures 
of mariners on the sea, all that counter-marching of 
tribes and races that confounds old history with its dust 

[281] 



THE SHORT STORY 



and rumor, sprang from, nothing more abstruse than the 
laws of supply and demand, and a certain natural 
instinct for cheap rations. To anyone thinking deeply, 
this will seem a dull and pitiful explanation. The tribes 
that came swarming out of the North and East, if they 
were indeed pressed onward from behind by others, were 
drawn at the same time by the magnetic influence of the 
South and "West. The fame of other lands had reached 
them; the name of the eternal city rang in their ears; 
they were not colonists, but pilgrims; they traveled 
towards wine and gold and sunshine, but their hearts 
were set on something higher. That divine unrest, that 
old stinging trouble of humanity that makes all high 
achievements and all miserable failure, the same that 
spread wings with Icarus, the same that sent Columbus 
into the desolate Atlantic, inspired and supported these 
barbarians on their perilous march. There is one legend 
which profoundly represents their spirit, of how a flying 
party of these wanderers encountered a very old man 
shod with iron. The old man asked them whither they 
were going; and they answered with one voice: " To 
the Eternal City! " He looked upon them gravely. 
" I have sought it," he said, " over the most part of the 
world. Three such pairs as I now carry on my feet 
have I worn out upon this pilgrimage, and now the 
fourth is growing slender underneath my steps. And 
all this while I have not found the city." And he 
turned and went his own way alone, leaving them aston- 
ished. 

And yet this would scarcely parallel the intensity of 
Will's feeling for the plain. If he could only go far 
enough out there, he felt as if his eyesight would be 

[282] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



purged and clarified, as if his hearing would grow more 
delicate, and his very breath would come and go with 
luxury. He was transplanted and withering where he 
was ; he lay in a strange country and was sick for home. 
Bit by bit, he pieced together broken notions of the 
world below : of the river, ever moving and growing until 
it sailed forth into the majestic ocean ; of the cities, full 
of brisk and beautiful people, playing fountains, bands 
of music and marble palaces, and lighted up at night 
from end to end with artificial stars of gold; of the 
great churches, wise universities, brave armies, and 
untold money lying stored in vaults ; of the high-flying 
vice that moved in the sunshine, and the stealth and 
swiftness of midnight murder. I have said he was sick 
as if for home: the figure halts. He was like someone 
lying in twilit, formless pre-existence, and stretching 
out his hands lovingly towards many-colored, many- 
sounding life. It was no wonder he was unhappy, he 
would go and tell the fish : they were made for their life, 
wished for no more than worms and running water, and 
a hole below a falling bank; but he was differently 
designed, full of desires and aspirations, itching at the 
fingers, lusting with the eyes, whom the whole variegated 
world could not satisfy with aspects. The true life, the 
true bright sunshine, lay far out upon the plain. And 
! to see this sunlight once before he died ! to move with 
a jocund spirit in a golden land! to hear the trained 
singers and sweet church bells, and see the holiday gar- 
dens! " And fish! " he would cry, " if you would 
only turn your noses down stream, you could swim so 
easily into the fabled waters and see the vast ships pass- 
ing over your heads like clouds, and hear the great 

[283] 



THE SHORT STORY 



water-hills making music over you all day long ! ' ' But ; 
the fish kept looking patiently in their own direction, ; 
until Will hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. 

Hitherto the traffic on the road had passed by "Will, 
like something seen in a picture; he had perhaps 
exchanged salutations with a tourist, or caught sight of 
an old gentleman in a traveling cap at a carriage win- 
dow; but for the most part it had been a mere symbol, 
which he contemplated from apart and with something 
of a superstitious feeling. A time came at last when 
this was to be changed. The miller, who was a greedy 
man in his way, and never forewent an opportunity of 
honest profit, turned the mill-house into a little wayside 
inn, and, several pieces of good fortune falling in oppor- 
tunely, built stables and got the position of postmaster 
on the road. It now became Will's duty to wait upon 
people, as they sat to break their fasts in the little arbor 
at the top of the mill garden ; and you may be sure that 
he kept his ears open, and learned many new things about 
the outside world as he brought the omelette or the wine. 
Nay, he would often get into conversation with single 
guests, and by adroit questions and polite attention, not 
only gratify his own curiosity, but win the goodwill of 
the travelers. Many complimented the old couple on 
their serving-boy ; and a professor was eager to take him 
away with him, and have him properly educated in the 
plain. The miller and his wife were mightily astonished 
and even more pleased. They thought it a very good 
thing that they should have opened their inn. " You 
see," the old man would remark, " he has a kind of 
talent for a publican; he never would have made any- 
thing else ! ' ' And so life wagged on in the valley, with 

[284] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



high satisfaction to all concerned hut Will. Every car- 
riage that left the inn door seemed to take a part of him 
away with it; and when people jestingly offered him a 
lift, he could with difficulty command his emotion. Night 
after night he would dream that he was awakened by 
flustered servants, and that a splendid equipage waited 
at the door to carry him down into the plain; night 
after night ; until the dream, which had seemed all jollity 
to him at first, began to take on a color of gravity, and 
the nocturnal summons and waiting equipage occupied 
a place in his mind as something to be both feared and 
hoped for. 

One day, when Will was about sixteen, a fat young 
man arrived at sunset to pass the night. He was a con- 
tented-looking fellow, with a jolly eye, and carried a 
knapsack. While dinner was preparing, he sat in the 
arbor to read a book; but as soon as he had begun to 
observe Will, the book was laid aside; he was plainly 
one of those who prefer living people to people made of 
ink and paper. Will, on his part, although he had 
not been much interested in the stranger at first sight, 
soon began to take a great deal of pleasure in his talk, 
which was full of good nature and good sense, and at last 
conceived a great respect for his character and wis- 
dom. 

They sat far into the night; and about two in the 
morning Will opened his heart to the young man, and 
told him how he longed to leave the valley and what 
bright hopes he had connected with the cities of the plain. 
The young man whistled, and then broke into a smile. 

" My young friend,' ' he remarked, " you are a very 
curious little fellow, to be sure, and wish a great many 

[285] 



THE SHORT STORY 



things which you will never get. Why, you would feel 
quite ashamed if you knew how the little fellows in these 
fairy cities of yours are all after the same sort of non- 
sense, and keep breaking their hearts to get up into the 
mountains. And let me tell you, those who go down into 
the plains are a very short while there before they wish 
themselves heartily back again. The air is not so light, 
nor so pure; nor is the sun any brighter. As for the 
beautiful men and women, you would see many of them 
in rags and many of them deformed with horrible dis- 
orders ; and a city is so hard a place for people who are 
poor and sensitive that many choose to die by their own 
hand.' , 

" You must think me very simple," answered Will. 
" Although I have never been out of this valley, believe 
me, I have used my eyes. I know how one thing lives 
on another; for instance, how the fish hangs in the 
eddy to catch his fellows ; and the shepherd, who makes 
so pretty a picture carrying home the lamb, is only 
carrying it home for dinner. I do not expect to find all 
things right in your cities. That is not what troubles 
me; it might have been that once upon a time; but 
although I live here always, I have asked many ques- 
tions and learned a great deal in these last years, and 
certainly enough to cure me of my old fancies. But yon 
would not have me die like a dog and not see all that is 
to be seen, and do all that a man can do, let it be good 
or evil? you would not have me spend all my days 
between this road here and the river, and not so much 
as make a motion to be up and live my life ? — I would 
rather die out of hand," he cried, " than linger on as I 
am doing." 

[ SS5 ] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



" Thousands of people," said the young man, " live 
! and die like you, and are none the less happy. ' ' 

" Ah ! " said Will, " if there are thousands who would 
j like, why should not one of them have my place ? ' ' 

It was quite dark; there was a hanging lamp in the 
arbor which lit up the table and the faces of the speak- 
j ers ; and along the arch, the leaves upon the trellis stood 
J out illuminated against the night sky, a pattern of trans- 
; parent green upon a dusky purple. The fat young man 
I rose, and, taking Will by the arm, led him out under the 
S open heavens. 

" Did you ever look at the stars? " he asked, pointing 
I upwards. 

1 ' Often and often, ' ' answered Will. 
1 ' And do you know what they are ? ' ' 
" I have fancied many things." 

" They are worlds like ours," said the young man. 
" Some of them less; many of them a million times 
greater; and some of the least sparkles that you see are 
not only worlds, but whole clusters of worlds turning 
about each other in the midst of space. We do not know 
what there may be in any of them; perhaps the answer 
to all our difficulties or the cure of all our sufferings: 
and yet we can never reach them; not all the skill of 
the craftiest of men can fit out a ship for the nearest of 
these our neighbors, nor would the life of the most aged 
suffice for such a journey. When a great battle has 
been lost or a dear friend is dead, when we are hipped 
or in high spirits, there they are unweariedly shining 
overhead. We may stand down here a whole army of 
us together, and shout until we break our hearts, and 
not a whisper reaches them. We may climb the highest 

[287] 



THE SHORT STORY 



mountain, and we are no nearer them. All we e xn do is 
to stand down here in the garden and take off our hats ; 
the starshine lights upon our heads, and where mine is 
a little bald, I dare say you can see it glisten in the dark- 
ness. The mountain and the mouse. That is like to be 
all we shall ever have to do with Arcturus or Aldebaran. 
Can you apply a parable? " he added, laying his hand 
upon Will's shoulder. " It is not the same thing as a 
reason, but usually vastly more convincing. ' ' 

Will hung his head a little, and then raised it once 
more to heaven. The stars seemed to expand and emit 
a sharper brilliancy; and as he kept turning his eyes 
higher and higher, they seemed to increase in multitude 
under his gaze. 

" I see," he said, turning to the young man. " We 
are in a rat-trap." 

' ' Something of that size. Did you ever see a squirrel 
turning in a cage? and another squirrel sitting philo- 
sophically over his nuts? I needn't ask you which of 
them looked more of a fool." 



II 

THE PARSON'S MARJORY 

After some years the old people died, both in one win- 
ter, very carefuly tended by their adopted son, and very 
quietly mourned when they were gone. People who 
had heard of his roving fancies supposed he would hasten 
to sell the property, and go down the river to push his 
fortunes. But there was never any sign of such an 
intention on the part of Will. On the contrary, he had 
the inn set on a better footing, and hired a couple of 

[288] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



, servants to assist him in carrying it on; and there he 
' settled down, a kind, talkative, inscrutable young man, 
six feet three in his stockings, with an iron constitution 
and a friendly voice. He soon began to take rank in 
i the district as a bit of an oddity : it was not much to be 
wondered at from the first, for he was always full of 
notions, and kept calling the plainest common-sense in 
question; but what most raised the report upon him 
was the odd circumstance of his courtship with the par- 
son's Marjory. 

The parson's Marjory was a lass about nineteen, when 
Will would be about thirty; well enough looking, and 
much better educated than any other girl in that part 
of the country, as became her parentage. She held her 
head very high, and had already refused several offers 
of marriage with a grand air, which had got her hard 
names among the neighbors. For all that she was a 
good girl, and one that would have made any man well 
contented. 

"Will had never seen much of her; for although the 
church and parsonage were only two miles from his own 
door, he was never known to go there but on Sundays. 
It chanced, however, that the parsonage fell into disre- 
pair, and had to be dismantled ; and the parson and his 
daughter took lodgings for a month or so, on very much 
reduced terms, at Will's inn. Now, what with the inn, 
and the mill, and the old miller's savings, our friend 
was a man of substance ; and besides that, he had a name 
j for good temper and shrewdness, which make a capital 
j portion in marriage ; and so it was currently gossiped, 
I among their well-wishers, that the parson and his daugh- 
i ter had not chosen their temporary lodging with their 

[289] 

i 

i 

; 



THE SHORT STORY 



eyes shut. "Will was about the last man in the world to 
be cajoled or frightened into marriage. You had only 
to look into his eyes, limpid and still like pools of water, 
and yet with a sort of clear light that seemed to come 
from within, and you would understand at once that 
here was one who knew his own mind, and would stand 
to it immovably. Marjory herself was no weakling by 
her looks, with strong, steady eyes and a resolute and 
quiet bearing. It might be a question whether she was 
not Will's match in steadfastness, after all, or which 
of them would rule the roast in marriage. But Marjory 
had never given it a thought, and accompanied her 
father with the most unshaken innocence and unconcern. 

The season was still so early that Will's customers 
were few and far between; but the lilacs were already 
flowering, and the weather was so mild that the party 
took dinner under the trellis, with the noise of the river 
in their ears and the woods ringing about them with the 
songs of birds. Will soon began to take a particular 
pleasure in these dinners. The parson was rather a dull 
companion, with a habit of dozing at table ; but nothing 
rude or cruel ever fell from his lips. And as for the 
parson's daughter, she suited her surroundings with the 
best grace imaginable ; and whatever she said seemed so 
pat and pretty that Will conceived a great idea of her 
talents. 

He could see her face, as she leaned forward, against 
a background of rising pinewoods ; her eyes shone peace- 
ably ; the light lay around her hair like a kerchief ; some- 
thing that was hardly a smile rippled her pale cheeks, 
and Will could not contain himself from gazing on 
her in an agreeable dismay. She looked, even in her 

[290] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



quietest moments, so complete in herself, and so quick 
with life down to her finger tips and the very skirts of 
her dress, that the remainder of created things became 
no more than a blot by comparison ; and if Will glanced 
away from her to her surroundings, the trees looked 
inanimate and senseless, the clouds hung in heaven like 
dead things, and even the mountain tops were disen- 
chanted. The whole valley could not compare in looks 
with this one girl. 

Will was always observant in the society of his fellow- 
creatures: but his observation became almost painfully 
eager in the case of Marjory. He listened to all she 
uttered, and read her eyes, at the same time, for the 
unspoken commentary. Many kind, simple, and sincere 
speeches found an echo in his heart. He became con- 
scious of a soul beautifully poised upon itself, nothing 
doubting, nothing desiring, clothed in peace. It was not 
possible to separate her thoughts from her appearance. 
The turn of her wrist, the still sound of her voice, the 
light in her eyes, the lines of her body, fell in tune with 
her grave and gentle words, like the accompaniment that 
sustains and harmonizes the voice of the singer. Her 
influence was one thing, not to be divided or discussed, 
only to be felt with gratitude and joy. To Will, her 
presence recalled something of his childhood, and the 
thought of her took its place in his mind beside that of 
dawn, of running water, and of the earliest violets and 
lilacs. It is the property of things seen for the first time, 
or for the first time after long, like the flowers in spring, 
to reawaken in us the sharp edge of sense and that 
impression of mystic strangeness which otherwise passes 
out of life with the coming of years; but the sight of a 

[291] 



THE SHORT STORY 



loved face is what renews a man's character from the 
fountain upwards. 

One day after dinner Will took a stroll among the 
firs; a grave beatitude possessed him from top to toe, 
and he kept smiling to himself and the landscape as he 
went. The river ran between the stepping-stones with 
a pretty wimple ; a bird sang loudly in the wood ; the hill- 
tops looked immeasurably high, and as he glanced at 
them from time to time seemed to contemplate his move- 
ments with a beneficent but awful curiosity. His way 
took him to the eminence which overlooked the plain; 
and there he sat down upon a stone, and fell into deep 
and pleasant thought. The plain lay abroad with its 
cities and silver river; everything was asleep, except a 
great eddy of birds which kept rising and falling and 
going round and round in the blue air. He repeated 
Marjory's name aloud, and the sound of it gratified his 
ear. He shut his eyes, and her image sprang up before 
him, quietly luminous and attended with good thoughts. 
The river might run forever; the birds fly higher and 
higher till they touched the stars. He saw it was empty 
bustle after all ; for here, without stirring a foot, waiting 
patiently in his own narrow valley, he also had attained 
the better sunlight. 

The next day Will made a sort of declaration across 
the dinner-table, while the parson was filling his pipe. 

" Miss Marjory," he said, " I never knew anyone I 
liked so well as you. I am mostly a cold, unkindly sort 
of man ; not from want of heart, but out of strangeness 
in my way of thinking ; and people seem far away from 
me. 'Tis as if there were a circle round me, which kept 
every one out but you; I can hear the others talking 

[292] 






WILL O' THE MILL 



and laughing; but you come quite close. Maybe, this 
is disagreeable to you ? ' ' he asked. 

Marjory made no answer. 

1 ' Speak up, girl, ' ' said the parson. 

" Nay, now," returned Will, " I wouldn't press her, 
parson. I feel tongue-tied myself, who am not used to 
it ; and she 's a woman, and little more than a child, when 
all is said. But for my part, as far as I can understand 
what people mean by it, I fancy I must be what they 
call in love. I do not wish to be held as committing 
myself; for I may be wrong; but that is how I believe 
things are with me. And if Miss Marjory should feel 
any otherwise on her part, mayhap she would be so kind 
as shake her head. ' ' 

Marjory was silent, and gave no sign that she had 
heard. 

1 1 How is that, parson ? ' s asked Will. 

" The girl must speak," replied the parson, laying 
down his pipe. ' ' Here 's our neighbor who says he loves 
you, Madge. Do you love him, ay or no ? " 

" I think I do," said Marjory, faintly. 

" Well then, that's all that could be wished! " cried 
Will, heartily. And he took her hand across the table, 
and held it a moment in both of his with great satis- 
faction. 

" You must marry," observed the parson, replacing 
his pipe in his mouth. 

" Is that the right thing to do, think you? " demanded 
Will. 

11 It is indispensable, ' ' said the parson. 

* i Very well, ' ' replied the wooer. 

Two or three days passed away with great delight to 

[293] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Will, although a bystander might scarce have found it 
out. He continued to take his meals opposite Marjory, 
and to talk with her and gaze upon her in her father's 
presence ; but he made no attempt to see her alone, nor 
in any other way changed his conduct towards her from 
what it had been since the beginning. Perhaps the girl 
was a little disappointed, and perhaps not unjustly ; and 
yet if it had been enough to be always in the thought of 
another person, and so pervade and alter his whole life, 
she might have been thoroughly contented. For she 
was never out of Will's mind for an instant. He lay 
over the stream, and watched the dust of the eddy, and 
the poised fish, and straining weeds; he wandered out 
alone into the purple even, with all the blackbirds piping 
round him in the wood; he rose early in the morning, 
and saw the sky turn from gray to gold, and the light 
leap upon the hill-tops ; and all the while he kept wonder- 
ing if he had never seen such things before, or how it 
was that they should look so different now. The 
sound of his own mill-wheel, or of the wind among the 
trees, confounded and charmed his heart. The most 
enchanting thoughts presented themselves unbidden in 
his mind. 

He was so happy that he could not sleep at night, and 
so restless that he could hardly sit still out of her com- 
pany. And yet it seemed as if he avoided her rather 
than sought her out. 

One day, as he was coming home from a ramble, Will 
found Marjory in the garden picking flowers, and as he 
came up with her, slackened his pace and continued 
walking by her side. 

" You like flowers? " he said. 

[294] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



1 ' Indeed I love them dearly, ' ' she replied. ' ' Do 

: you? " 

11 Why, no," said he, " not so much. They are a 

very small affair, when all is done. I can fancy people 

! caring for them greatly, but not doing as you are just 



" How? " she asked, pausing and looking up at him. 

" Plucking them," said he. " They are a deal better 
off where they are, and look a deal prettier, if you go to 
i that." 

" I wish to have them for my own," she answered, 

j " to carry them near my heart, and keep them in my 

1 room. They tempt me when they grow here ; they seem 

to say, ' Come and do something with us; ' but once I 

have cut them and put them by, the charm is laid, and I 

can look at them with quite an easy heart. ' ' 

' ' You wish to possess them, ' ' replied Will, ' ' in order 
to think no more about them. It's a bit like killing the 
goose with the golden eggs. It's a bit like what I wished 
to do when I was a boy. Because I had a fancy for^ 
looking out over the plain, I wished to go down there — 
where I couldn't look out over it any longer. Was not 
that fine reasoning? Dear, dear, if they only thought 
of it, all the world would do like me ; and you would let 
your flowers alone, just as I stay up here in the moun- 
tains. ' ' 

Suddenly he broke off sharp. " By the Lord! " he 
cried. And when she asked him what was wrong, he 
turned the question off, and walked away into the house 
with rather a humorous expression of face. 

He was silent at table ; and after the night had fallen 
and the stars had come out overhead, he walked up and 

[295] 



THE SHORT STORY 



down for hours in the courtyard and garden with an 
uneven pace. There was still a light in the window of 
Marjory's room: one little oblong patch of orange in a 
world of dark blue hills and silver starlight. Will's 
mind ran a great deal on the window ; but his thoughts 
were not very lover-like. " There she is in her room," 
he thought, ' ' and there are the stars overhead — a bless- 
ing upon both ! " Both were good influences in his life ; 
both soothed and braced him in his profound content- 
ment with the world. And what more should he desire 
with either? The fat young man and his councils were 
so present to his mind, that he threw back his head, and, 
putting his hands before his mouth, shouted aloud to 
the populous heavens. Whether from the position of 
his head or the sudden strain of the exertion, he seemed 
to see a momentary shock among the stars, and a diffusion 
of frosty light pass from one to another along the sky. 
At the same instant, a corner of the blind was lifted 
and lowered again at once. He laughed a loud ho-ho! 
1 ' one and another ! ' ' thought Will. ' l The stars tremble 
and the blind goes up. Why, before Heaven, what a 
great magician I must be! Now if I were only a fool, 
should not I be in a pretty way ? ' ' And he went off to 
bed, chuckling to himself : ' ' If I were only a fool ! ' ' 

The next morning, pretty early, he saw her once more 
in the garden, and sought her out. 

" I have been thinking about getting married,' ' he 
began abruptly; " and after having turned it all over, 
I have made up my mind it's not worth while." 

She turned upon him for a single moment; but his 
radiant, kindly appearance would, under the circum- 
stances, have disconcerted an angel, and she looked down 

[296] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



again upon the ground in silence. He could not see her 
tremble. 

" I hope you don't mind," he went on, a little taken 
aback. " You ought not. I have turned it all over, 
and upon my soul there's nothing in if. We should 
never be one whit nearer than we are just now, and, if 
I am a wise man, nothing like so happy. ' ' 

" It is unnecessary to go round about with me," she 
said. " I very well remember that you refused to com- 
mit yourself ; and now that I see you were mistaken, and 
in reality have never cared for me, I can only feel sad 
that I have been so far misled. ' ' 

' ' I ask your pardon, ' ' said Will stoutly ; ' ' you do not 
understand my meaning. As to whether I have ever 
loved you or not, I must leave that to others. But for 
one thing, my feeling is not changed; and for another, 
you may make it your boast that you have made my whole 
life and character something different from what they 
were. I mean what I say; no less. I do not think 
getting married is worth while. I would rather you went 
on living with your father, so that I could walk over and 
see you once, or maybe twice a week, as people go to 
church, and then we should both be all the happier 
between whiles. That's my notion. But I'll marry you 
if you will," he added. 

' l Do you know that you are insulting me? " she broke 
out. 

" Not I, Marjory," said he ; " if there is anything in a 
clear conscience, not I. I offer all my heart's best affec- 
tion; you can take it or want it, though I suspect it's 
beyond either your power or mine to change what has 
once been done, and set me fancy-free. I'll marry you 

[297] 



THE SHORT STORY 



if you like ; but I tell you again and again, it 's not worth 
while, and we had best stay friends. Though I am a 
quiet man I have noticed a heap of things in my life. 
Trust in me, and take things as I propose; or, if you 
don't like that, say the word, and I'll marry you out of 
hand." 

There was a considerable pause, and Will, who began 
to feel uneasy, began to grow angry in consequence. 

" It seems you are too proud to say your mind, ,, he 
said. ' ' Believe me that 's a pity. A clean shrift makes 
simple living. Can a man be more downright or honor- 
able to a woman than I have been? I have said my 
say, and given you your choice. Do you want me to 
marry you? or will you take my friendship, as I think 
best? or have you had enough of me for good? Speak 
out for the dear God 's sake ! You know your father 
told you a girl should speak her mind in these affairs. ' ' 

She seemed to recover herself at that, turned without 
a word, walked rapidly through the garden, and disap- 
peared into the house, leaving Will in some confusion 
as to the result. He walked up and down the garden, 
whistling softly to himself. Sometimes he stopped and 
contemplated the sky and hill-tops ; sometimes he went 
down to the tail of the weir and sat there, looking 
foolishly in the water. All this dubiety and perturbation 
was so foreign to his nature and the life which he had 
resolutely chosen for himself, that he began to regret 
Marjory's arrival. " After all," he thought, " I was 
as happy as a man need be. I could come down here and 
watch my fishes all day long if I wanted : I was as settled 
and contented as my old mill. ' ' 

Marjory came down to dinner, looking very trim and 

[298] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



quiet; and no sooner were all three at table than she 
made her father a speech, with her eyes fixed upon her 
plate, but showing no other sign of embarrassment or 
distress. 

" Father," she began, " Mr. Will and I have been 
talking things over. We see that we have each made a 
mistake about our feelings, and he has agreed, at my 
request, to give up all idea of marriage, and be no more 
than my very good friend, as in the past. You see, 
there is no shadow of a quarrel, and indeed I hope we 
shall see a great deal of him in the future, for his visits 
will always be welcome in our house. Of course, father, 
you will know best, but perhaps we should do better to 
leave Mr. Will's house for the present. I believe, after 
what has passed, we should hardly be agreeable inmates 
for some days." 

Will, who had commanded himself with difficulty from 
the first, broke out upon this into an inarticulate noise, 
and raised one hand with an appearance of real dismay, 
as if he were about to interfere and contradict. But 
she checked him at once, looking up at him with a swift 
glance and an angry flush upon her cheek. 

" You will perhaps have the good grace," she said, 
' ■ to let me explain these matters for myself. ' ' 

Will was put entirely out of countenance by her 
expression and the ring of her voice. He held his peace, 
concluding that there were some things about this girl 
beyond his comprehension, in which he was exactly right. 

The poor parson was quite crestfallen. He tried to 
prove that this was no more than a true lovers' tiff, 
which would pass off before night; and when he was 
dislodged from that position, he went on to argue that 

[299] 



THE SHORT STORY 



where there was no quarrel there could be no call for a 
separation; for the good man liked both his entertain- 
ment and his host. It was curious to see how the girl 
managed them, saying little all the time, and that very 
quietly, and yet twisting them round her finger and 
insensibly leading them wherever she would by feminine 
tact and generalship. It scarcely seemed to have been 
her doing — it seemed as if things had merely so fallen 
out — that she and her father took their departure that 
same afternoon in a farm cart, and went farther down 
the valley, to wait, until their own house was ready for 
them, in another hamlet. But Will had been observing 
closely, and was well aware of her dexterity and resolu- 
tion. When he found himself alone he had a great many 
curious matters to turn over in his mind. He was very 
sad and solitary, to begin with. All the interest had 
gone out of his life, and he might look up at the stars as 
long as he pleased, he somehow failed to find support or 
consolation. And then he was in such a turmoil of spirit 
about Marjory. He had been puzzled and irritated at 
her behavior, and yet he could not keep himself from 
admiring it. He thought he recognized a fine, perverse 
angel in that still soul which he had never hitherto 
suspected; and though he saw it was an influence that 
would fit but ill with his own life of artificial calm, he 
could not keep himself from ardently desiring to possess 
it. Like a man who has lived among shadows and now 
meets the sun, he was both pained and delighted. 

As the days went forward he passed from one extreme 
to another ; now pluming himself on the strength of his 
determination, now despising his timid and silly caution. 
The former was, perhaps, the true thought of his heart, 

[300] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



and represented the regular tenor of the man's reflec- 
tions ; but the latter burst forth from time to time with 
an unruly violence, and then he would forget all con- 
sideration, and go up and down his house or garden or 
walk among the firwoods like one who is beside himself 
with remorse. To equable, steady-minded Will this state 
of matters was intolerable ; and he determined, at what- 
ever cost, to bring it to an end. So, one warm summer 
afternoon he put on his best clothes, took a thorn switch 
in his hand, and set out down the valley by the river. 
As soon as he had taken his determination, he had 
regained at a bound his customary peace of heart, and 
he enjoyed the bright weather and the variety of the 
scene without any admixture of alarm or unpleasant 
eagerness. It was nearly the same to him how the matter 
turned out. If she accepted him, he would have to marry 
her this time, which perhaps was all for the best. If she 
refused him, he would have done his utmost, and might 
follow his own way in the future with an untroubled 
conscience. He hoped, on the whole, she would refuse 
him; and then, again, as he saw the brown roof which 
sheltered her, peeping through some willows at an angle 
of the stream, he was half inclined to reverse the wish, 
and more than half ashamed of himself for this infirmity 
of purpose. 

Marjory seemed glad to see him, and gave him her 
hand without affectation or delay. 

1 ' I have been thinking about this marriage, ' ' he began. 

" So have I," she answered. " And I respect you 
more and more for a very wise man. You understood 
me better than I understood myself ; and I am now quite 
certain that things are all for the best as they are." 

[301] 



THE SHORT STORY 



11 At the same time — " ventured Will. 

' ' You must be tired, ' ' she interrupted. ' ' Take a seat 
and let me fetch you a glass of wine. The afternoon 
so warm ; and I wish you not to be displeased with your 
visit. You must come quite often; once a week, if you 
can spare the time; I am always so glad to see my 
friends. ' ' 

"Oh, very well," thought Will to himself. "It 
appears I was right after all." And he paid a very 
agreeable visit, walked home again in capital spirits, anc 
gave himself no further concern about the matter. 

For nearly three years Will and Marjory continued on 
these terms, seeing each other once or twice a week 
without any word of love between them ; and for all that 
time I believe Will was nearly as happy as a man can 
be. He rather stinted himself the pleasure of seeing her 
and he would often walk half-way over to the parsonage, 
and then back again, as if to whet his appetite. Indeec 
there was one corner of the road, whence he could see 
the church-spire wedged into a crevice of the valley 
between sloping firwoods, with a triangular snatch of 
plain by way of background, which he greatly affected 
as a place to sit and moralize in before returning home- 
wards; and the peasants got so much into the habit of 
finding him there in the twilight that they gave it the 
name of " Will o' the Mill's Corner." 

At the end of the three years Marjory played him 
sad trick by suddenly marrying somebody else. Wil 
kept his countenance bravely, and merely remarked that, 
for as little as he knew of women, he had acted very 
prudently in not marrying her himself three years before. 
She plainly knew very little of her own mind, and, in 

[302] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



spite of a deceptive manner, was as fickle and flighty as 
! the rest of them. He had to congratulate himself on an 
j escape, he said, and would take a higher opinion of his 
own wisdom in consequence. But at heart, he was 
I reasonably displeased, moped a good deal for a month 
or two, and fell away in flesh, to the astonishment of 
| the serving-lads. 

It was perhaps a year after this marriage that Will 

was awakened late one night by the sound of a horse 

galloping on the road, followed by precipitate knocking 

| at the inn door. He opened his window and saw a farm 

i servant, mounted and holding a led horse by the bridle, 

I who told him to make what haste he could and go along 

with him ; for Marjory was dying, and had sent urgently 

to fetch him to her bedside. Will was no horseman, and 

made so little speed upon the way that the poor young 

wife was very near her end before he arrived. But they 

had some minutes ' talk in private, and he was present 

and wept very bitterly while she breathed her last. 

Ill 

DEATH 

Year after year went away into nothing, with great 
explosions and outcries in the cities on the plain; red 
revolt springing up and being suppressed in blood, battle 
swaying hither and thither, patient astronomers in 
observatory towers picking out and christening new 
stars, plays being performed in lighted theaters, people 
being carried into hospitals on stretchers, and all the 
usual turmoil and agitation of men's lives in crowded 
centers. Up in Will's valley only the winds and seasons 

[303] 



THE SHORT STORY 



made an epoch; the fish hung in the swift stream, the 
birds circled overhead, the pine-tops rustled underneath 
the stars, the tall hills stood over all; and Will went 
to and fro minding his wayside inn, until the snow began 
to thicken on his head. His heart was young and vigor- 
ous; and if his pulses kept a sober time, they still beal 
strong and steady in his wrists. He carried a ruddy 
stain on either cheek, like a ripe apple; he stooped i 
little, but his step was still firm; and his sinewy hands 
were reached out to all men with a friendly pressure 
His face was covered with those wrinkles which are go1 
in open air, and which, rightly looked at, are no more 
than a sort of permanent sunburning; such wrinkles 
heighten the stupidity of stupid faces; but to a person 
like "Will, with his clear eyes and smiling mouth, only 
give another charm by testifying to a simple and eas> 
life. His talk was full of wise sayings. He had a taste 
for other people; and other people had a taste for him 
When the valley was full of tourists in the season, there 
were merry nights in Will's arbor; and his views, which 
seemed whimsical to his neighbors, were often enough 
admired by learned people out of towns and colleges 
Indeed, he had a very noble old age, and grew daily 
better known ; so that his fame was heard of in the cities 
of the plain; and young men who had been summer 
travelers spoke together in cafes of Will o' the Mill and 
his rough philosophy. Many and many an invitation, 
you may be sure, he had ; but nothing could tempt him 
from his upland valley. He would shake his head and 
smile over his tobacco pipe with a deal of meaning. 
11 You come too late," he would answer. " I am a dead 
man now: I have lived and died already. Fifty years 

[304] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



; ago you would have brought my heart into my mouth; 

! and now you do not even tempt me. But that is the 

j object of long living, that man should cease to care about 

life." And again: " There is only one difference 

| between a long life and a good dinner; that, in the 

dinner, the sweets come last. ' ' Or once more : ' ' When 

j I was a boy, I was a bit puzzled, and hardly knew whether 

I it was myself or the world that was curious and worth 

' looking into. Now, I know it is myself, and stick to 

that." 

He never showed any symptom of frailty, but kept 
stalwart and firm to the last; but they say he grew less 
talkative towards the end, and would listen to other 
people by the hour in an amused and sympathetic 
silence. Only, when he did speak, it was more to the 
point and more charged with old experience. He drank 
a bottle of wine gladly; above all, at sunset on the hill- 
i top or quite late at night under the stars in the arbor. 
| The sight of something attractive and unattainable 
seasoned his enjoyment, he would say ; and he professed 
he had lived long enough to admire a candle all the 
more when he could compare it with a planet. 

One night, in his seventy-second year, he awoke in 
bed in such uneasiness of body and mind that he arose 
and dressed himself and went out to meditate in the ar- 
bor. It was pitch dark, without a star; the river was 
swollen, and the wet woods and meadows loaded the air 
with perfume. It had thundered during the day, and it 
promised more thunder for the morrow. A murky, 
stifling night for a man of seventy-two ! Whether it was 
the weather or the wakefulness, or some little touch of 
fever in his old limbs, Will's mind was besieged by 

[305] 



THE SHORT STORY 



tumultuous and crying memories. His boyhood, the night 
with the fat young man, the death of his adopted 
parents, the summer days with Marjory, and many of 
those small circumstances, which seem nothing to another, 
and are yet the very gist of a man's own life to himself 
— things seen, words heard, looks misconstrued — arose 
from their forgotten corners and usurped his attention. 
The dead themselves were with him, not merely taking 
part in this thin show of memory that defiled before his 
brain, but revisiting his bodily senses as they do in pro- 
found and vivid dreams. The fat young man leaned 
his elbows on the table opposite ; Marjory came and went 
with an apronful of flowers between the garden and the 
arbor; he could hear the old parson knocking out his 
pipe or blowing his resonant nose. The tide of his con- 
sciousness ebbed and flowed: he was sometimes half 
asleep and drowned in his recollections of the past; and 
sometimes he was broad awake, wondering at himself. 
But about the middle of the night he was startled by 
the voice of the dead miller calling to him out of the 
house as he used to do on the arrival of custom. The 
hallucination was so perfect that Will sprang from his 
seat and stood listening for the summons to be repeated ; 
and as he listened he became conscious of another noise 
besides the brawling of the river and the ringing in his 
feverish ears. It was like the stir of horses and the 
creaking of harness, as though a carriage with an im- 
patient team had been brought up upon the road before 
the courtyard gate. At such an hour, upon this rough 
and dangerous pass, the supposition was no better than 
absurd; and Will dismissed it from his mind, and 
resumed his seat upon the arbor chair ; and sleep closed 

[306] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



over him again like running water. He was once again 
awakened by the dead miller's call, thinner and more 
spectral than before ; and once again he heard the noise 
of an equipage upon the road. And so thrice and four 
times, the same dream, or the same fancy, presented 
itself to his senses; until at length, smiling to himself 
as when one humors a nervous child, he proceeded 
towards the gate to set his uncertainty at rest. 

From the arbor to the gate was no great distance, and 
yet it took Will some time; it seemed as if the dead 
thickened around him in the court, and crossed his path 
at every step. For, first, he was suddenly surprised by 
an overpowering sweetness of heliotropes; it was as if 
his garden had been planted with this flower from end 
to end, and the hot, damp night had drawn forth all 
their perfumes in a breath. Now the heliotrope had been 
Marjory's favorite flower, and since her death not one 
of them had ever been planted in Will 's ground. 

" I must be going crazy, " he thought. " Poor Marjory 
and her heliotropes ! ' ' 

And with that he raised his eyes towards the window 
that had once been hers. If he had been bewildered 
before, he was now almost terrified; for there was a 
light in the room ; the window was an orange oblong as 
of yore; and the corner of the blind was lifted and let 
fall as on the night when he stood and shouted to the 
stars in his perplexity. The illusion only endured an 
instant; but it left him somewhat unmanned, rubbing 
his eyes and staring at the outline of the house and the 
black night behind it. While he thus stood, and it seemed 
as if he must have stood there quite a long time, there 
came a renewal of the noises on the road : and he turned 

[307] 



THE SHORT STORY 



in time to meet a stranger, who was advancing to meet 
him across the court. There was something like the 
outline of a great carriage discernible on the road behind 
the stranger, and, above that, a few black pine-tops, like 
so many plumes. 

" Master Will? " asked the newcomer, in brief mili- 
tary fashion. 

" That same, sir," answered Will. " Can I do any- 
thing to serve you? " 

" I have heard you much spoken of, Master Will," 
returned the other; " much spoken of, and well. And 
though I have both hands full of business, I wish to 
drink a bottle of wine with you in your arbor. Before I 
go, I shall introduce myself. ' ' 

Will led the way to the trellis, and got a lamp lighted 
and a bottle uncorked. He was not altogether unused 
to such complimentary interviews, and hoped little 
enough from this one, being schooled by many disap- 
pointments. A sort of cloud had settled on his wits and 
prevented him from remembering the strangeness of the 
hour. He moved like a person in his sleep ; and it seemed 
as if the lamp caught fire and the bottle came uncorked 
with the facility of thought. Still, he had some cu- 
riosity about the appearance of his visitor, and tried in 
vain to turn the light into his face; either he handled 
the lamp clumsily, or there was a dimness over his eyes ; 
but he could make out little more than a shadow at table 
with him. He stared and stared at this shadow, as he 
wiped out the glasses, and began to feel cold and strange 
about the heart. The silence weighed upon him, for he 
could hear nothing now, not even the river, but the 
drumming of his own arteries in his ears. 

[308] 



WILL O' THE MILL 



1 ' Here 's to you, ' ' said the stranger, roughly. 

" Here is my service, sir," replied Will, sipping his 
wine, which somehow tasted oddly. 

" I understand you are a very positive fellow," pur- 
sued the stranger. 

Will made answer with a smile of some satisfaction 
and a little nod. 

" So am I," continued the other; " and it is the 
delight of my heart to tramp on people's corns. I will 
have nobody positive but myself: not one. I have 
crossed the whims, in my time, of kings and generals 
and great artists. And what would you say," he went 
1 on, " if I had come up here on purpose to cross yours ? • ' 

Will had it on his tongue to make a sharp rejoinder ; 
but the politeness of an old innkeeper prevailed ; and he 
I held his peace and made answer with a civil gesture of 
! the hand. 

" I have," said the stranger. " And if I did not 
\ hold you in a particular esteem, I should make no words 
about the matter. It appears you pride yourself on stay- 
ing where you are. You mean to stick by your inn. 
Now I mean you shall come for a turn with me in 
my barouche; and before this bottle's empty, so you 
shall." 

" That would be an odd thing, to be sure," replied 
Will, with a chuckle. " Why, sir, I have grown here 
like an old oak-tree ; the Devil himself could hardly root 
me up : and for all I perceive you are a very entertaining 
old gentleman, I would wager you another bottle you 
lose your pains with me." 

The dimness of Will's eyesight had been increasing 
all this while ; but he was somehow conscious of a sharp 

[309] 



THE SHORT STORY 



and chilling scrutiny which irritated and yet over 
mastered him. 

" You need not think," he broke out suddenly, in an 
explosive, febrile manner that startled and alarmed him 
self, ' ' that I am a stay-at-home because I fear anything 
under God. God knows I am tired enough of it all; 
and when the time comes for a longer journey than ever 
you dream of, I reckon I shall find myself prepared. ' ' 

The stranger emptied his glass and pushed it away 
from him. He looked down for a little, and then, leaning 
over the table, tapped Will three times upon the forearm 
with a single finger. ' ' The time has come ! ' ' he said 
solemnly. 

An ugly thrill spread from the spot he touched. The 
tones of his voice were dull and startling, and echoed 
strangely in Will's heart. 

" I beg your pardon," he said, with some discom- 
posure. ' ' What do you mean ? ' ' 

" Look at me, and you will find your eyesight swim. 
Raise your hand; it is dead-heavy. This is your last 
bottle of wine, Master Will, and your last night upon 
the earth." 

' ' You are a doctor ? ' ' quavered Will. 

' ' The best that ever was, ' ' replied the other ; ' ' for 
cure both mind and body with the same prescription. 
I take away all pain and I forgive all sins ; and where 
my patients have gone wrong in life, I smooth out all 
complications and set them free again upon their feet. ' ' 

' ' I have no need of you, ' ' said Will. 

" A time comes for all men, Master Will," replied 
the doctor, ' ' when the helm is taken out of their hands 
For you, because you were prudent and quiet, it has 

[310] 



WILL O* THE MILL 



been long of coming, and you have had long to discipline 
yourself for its reception. You have seen what is to be 
seen about your mill; you have sat close all your days 
like a hare in its form ; but now that is at an end ; and," 
added the doctor, getting on his feet, " you must arise 
and come with me. ' ' 

1 ' You are a strange physician, ' ' said Will looking 
steadfastly upon his guest. 

" I am a natural law," he replied, " and people call 
me Death. ' ' 

11 Why did you not tell me so at first? " cried Will. 
" I have been waiting for you these many years. Give 
me your hand, and welcome." 

" Lean upon my arm," said the stranger, " for 
already your strength abates. Lean on me as heavily as 
you need ; for though I am old, I am very strong. It is 
but three steps to my carriage, and there all your trouble 
ends. Why, Will," he added, " I have been yearning 
for you as if you were my own son ; and of all the men 
that ever I came for in my long days, I have come for 
you most gladly. I am caustic, and sometimes offend 
people at first sight ; but I am a good friend at heart to 
such as you. ' ' 

" Since Marjory was taken," returned Will, " I de- 
clare before God you were the only friend I had to look 
for." 

So the pair went arm-in-arm across the courtyard. 

One of the servants awoke about this time and heard 
the noise of horses pawing before he dropped asleep 
again ; all down the valley that night there was a rushing 
as of a smooth and steady wind descending towards the 
plain; and when the world rose next morning, sure 

[311] 



THE SHORT STORY 



enough "Will o' the Mill had gone at last upon his 
travels. 

STUDY NOTES 

A favorite maxim of Stevenson was: " Acts may be 
forgiven, but not even God himself can forgive the 
hanger back." Stevenson explained in a letter to his 
friend, Sydney Colvin, that in Will o' the Mill he had 
tried to show what might be said on the other side. Does 
he convince you in this story that it is better to follow 
the councils of prudence and cool reason rather than 
those of the impulses ? What purpose is served by divid- 
ing the story into its three sections? At the end of 
the first section Will says, " We are in a rat-trap." 
What bearing has that upon his decision to stay at the 
mill rather than go down into the plain? What is the 
significance of Will 's temporary conviction that the stars 
responded to his shout and that Marjory's curtain was 
raised and lowered at the same time ? 



[312] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL * 
By James B. Connolly 

James B. Connolly (1868- ) was born in Boston and 
makes his home there. He is a teller of sea tales, using the 
technic of the realist in dealing with romantic material. He 
was educated chiefly in the public and parochial schools of 
Boston, has served both in the army and navy, and knows 
intimately the life of which he writes. Perhaps the best known 
volume of his stories is that entitled The Crested Seas. 

Martin Carr had done a fine thing that afternoon. 
Martin and John Marsh were hauling trawls, when a 
sea capsized their dory. The same sea washed them both 
clear of the dory. John Marsh could not swim. It 
looked as if he had hauled his last trawl, and so, beyond 
all question, he had, but for Martin, who seized one of 
their buoy-kegs, which happened to bob up near by, and 
pushed it into John's despairing arms. " Hang on for 
your life, John," said Martin, and himself struck out 
for the dory, knowing that the buoy could not support 
two. It was perhaps forty feet to the bottom of the 
dory — not a great swim that — but this was a winter 's 
day on the Grand Banks, and a man beaten back by a 
rough sea and borne down by the weight of heavy cloth- 
ing, oilskins, and big jack-boots. "When he had fought 
his way to the dory he had to wait a while before he 

* Copyrighted 1905. Reprinted from Scrilmer's Magazine, 
August, 1905, by permission of the author and Charles Scrib- 
ner's Sons. 

[313] 



THE SHORT STORY 



dared try to climb up on it — he was so tired — and 
after he got there he found no strap to the plug, and so 
nothing to hang on to. He remembered then that he and 
John had often spoken of fixing up a strap for the plug 
— and never fixed it. 

" My own neglect," muttered Martin, " and now I'm 
paying for it. ' ' 

Clinging to the smooth planking on the bottom of the 
dory was hard work that day, and becoming harder every 
minute, for the sea was making. And there was John 
to keep an eye on. ' ' How 're you making out, Johnnie- 
boy? " he called. 

" It's heavy dragging, but I'm all right so far," John 
answered. 

" And how is it with you now, Johnnie-boy? " he 
called in a little while again. 

' ' I can hang on a while yet, Martin. ' ' 

1 ' Good for you, ' ' said Martin to that. 

" Can you see the vessel? " then asked John after 
another space. 

11 He's giving out, and I see no vessel," thought 
Martin, but answered cheerily, ' ' Aye, I see her. ' ' 

1 ' And how far away is she, and what 's she doing ? ' ' 

Aloud Martin said, " Five or six miles maybe, up to 
win 'ard — and she 's taking aboard all but the last dory, 
and there 's men gone aloft to look for us. ' ' But under 
his breath, " And God forgive me if I go to my death 
with that lie on my lips — but 'tis no deeper than my 
lips — no deeper. ' ' 

Then they waited and waited, until John said, 
' ' Martin, I '11 have to go soon — I can 't hang on much 
longer. ' ' 

[314] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

" Bide a while, Johnnie-boy — bide a while. Dory- 
mates we've been for many a trip — bide a while with 
me now, Johnnie. ' ' 

But Martin knew that it would be for but a little while 
for John — for them both — if help did not come soon. 
Scanning the sea for whatever hope the sea might give, 
he saw the trawl-line floating on the water. That was 
the line that ran from their anchor somewhere on the 
bottom to the buoy keg to which John was clinging. If 
he could but get hold of that line he could draw John 
to the dory, with a better chance to talk to him — to put 
heart into him, for Johnnie was but a lad — no more 
than five and twenty. 

To get the line he would have to swim; and to swim 
any distance in that rising and already bad sea he would 
have to cast off most of his clothing. And with most of 
his clothing gone he would not last too long. Certainly 
if the vessel did not get them by dark, he would never 
live through the night. He would freeze to death — 
that he knew well. But could he live through the night 
anyway? And even if he could — but what was the 
good of thinking all night over it? He pulled off his 
boots, untied his oilskins, hauled off his heavy outer 
woollens. 

' ' Johnnie-boy, can you hang on a while longer ? ' ' 
1 i I dunno, Martin — I dunno. Where 's the vessel ? ' ' 
1 ' She 's bearing down, John. ' ' And with the thought 
of that second lie on his lips Martin scooped off for 
the buoy-line, which, after a battle, he grabbed and 
towed back to the dory. It was a hard fight, and he 
would have liked well to rest a while — but there was 
Johnnie. So in he hauled, many a long fathom of slack 

[315] 



THE SHORT STORY 



ground-line, with gangings and hooks, and after that 
the buoy-line. He sorrowfully regarded the fine fat fish 
that he passed along — every hook seemed to have a fish 
on it. " Man, man, but 'twas only last night I baited 
up for ye in the cold hold of the vessel — baited with 
the cold frozen squid, and my fingers nigh frost-bitten. ' j 
But every hook was bringing him nearer to his dory- 
mate. 

He felt the line tauten at last. " Have a care now, 
Johnnie, whilst I draw you to me," and hauled in till 
Johnnie was alongside. 

But " Good-by," said Johnnie ere yet Martin had 
him safe. 

1 ' Not yet, Johnnie-boy, ' ' said Martin, and reached for 
him and held him up and lashed him to the buoy. ' ' You 
can rest your arms now, lad," he said, and Johnnie 
gratefully let go. 

" 'Tis made of iron a man should be that goes winter 
trawling," said Martin, and up on the bottom of the 
dory he climbed again, this time with infinite difficulty. 

They had had the leeward berth, the farthest from the 
vessel, and by now it was dark. But Martin knew the 
skipper would not give them up in a hurry, as he ex- 
plained to John. And by and by they saw the torches 
from the vessel flare up. 

"Wait you, John," said Martin then, "and save 
your strength. I '11 hail when I think they 're near enough 
to hear ; ' ' which he did, in a voice that obeyed the iron 
will and carried far across the waters. 

Then the vessel saw them and bore down, the skipper 
to the wheel and the men lining the rail. 

" Be easy with John," said Martin to the men who 

[316] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

first stretched their arms out, "I'm thinking he's nigh 
gone. ' ' 

" But all right with him soon," they said as they 
passed him along the deck. " And how is it with your- 
self, Martin? " they asked him as he was about to step 
over the rail. 

1 ■ Fine and daisy, ' ' said Martin. ' ' How is it yourself, 
boy? " stepping jauntily up, and then, unable longer to 
stand, fell flat on the deck. 

Seeing how it had been with him, they made him go 
below also, which he, with shipmates helping, did; and 
also, later, put on the dry shift of clothes they made 
ready. In the middle of it all he asked, " "Where's 
Johnnie? " 

1 ' In his bunk — and full of hot coffee — where you 11 
be in a minute. ' ' 

The hell I will — there 's my dory yet to be hoisted 



c i 



"Your dory, Martin? Why, she's in, drained dry 
and griped long ago. ' ' 

1 1 What ! and me below ? And dory in already ? What 
was it? Did I fall asleep or what? Lord! but it's an 
old man I must be getting. I wouldn't Ve believed it. 
In all my time to sea that's the first time ever I warn't 
able to lift hand to tackles and my own dory hoisting 
in." He made for the companion-way, but so weak was 
he that he fell back when he tried to climb the ladder. 

But a really strong man recuperates rapidly. An hour 

later Martin was enjoying a fine hot supper, while the 

crew sat around and hove questions at him. They asked 

J for details and he gave them, or at least such of them as 

! had become impressed on his mind ; particularly did he 

[317] 



THE SHORT STORY 



, 



condemn, in crisp phrases, the botheration of boots that 
leaked and the need of a second plug-strap on the bottom ! 
of a dory. " There ought to be a new law about plug- 
straps, ' ' said Martin. 

"Did ever a man yet come off the bottom of a dory 
and not speak about the plug straps? " commented one. 

' ' And leaky boots is the devil, ' ' affirmed another — a 
notorious talker this one, who bunked up in the peak, 
where he could be dimly seen now — his head out of his ! 
bunk that his voice might carry the better. ' ' I bought a 
pair of boots in Boston once — a Jew up on Atlantic 
Avenue — " 

' ' In Heaven 's name, will you shut up — you and your 
Atlantic Avenue boots? "We'll never hear the end of 
those boots." 

The man in the peak subsided, and he who had quelled 
him, near to the stove and smoking a pipe, went on for 
himself, ' ' And what were you thinkin ' of, Martin, when 
you thought you were goin'? " 

" Or did you think any time that you was goin'? " 
asked somebody else. 

' ' Indeed and I did, and a dozen times I thought it — 
and that 'twas a blessed cold kind of a day for a man 
to be soaking his feet in the ocean.' ' 

' ' And yet ' ' — the lad in the peak was in commission 
again — ' ' and yet warn 't it some professor said in that 
book that somebody was reading out of the other day — 
warn't it him said that salt water ain't nigh so cold as 
fresh. Is it, Martin? " 

"As to that," answered Martin, " I dunno. But I 
wish 'twas that professor 's feet, not mine, was astraddle 
the bottom of that dory — not to wish him any harm — 

[3ia] 



: THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

i— ; 

I but a winter's day and the wind northerly, I found it 
; cold enough. " 

' ' I went into a Turkish bath parlor in New York one 
l time, ' ' came the conversational voice from the peak, 
j u and hot? My Lord— " 

* * The man, ' ' said the next on watch, taking his mitts 
j from the line above the stove — * ' the man that 'd talk 
j about hot Turkish baths on a night like this to sea — 
j Turkish baths, and Lord in Heaven, two good long hours 
j up there — ' ' He halted to take a sniff up the com- 
! panion-way. * ' Two hours — what ought to be done with 
I the like o' him?" 

The man by the stove, who awhile before had van- 
quished the lad in the peak, took his pipe long enough 
from his mouth to observe, " And for four years now 
to my knowledge he's been tryin' to tell how hot 'twas 
in that Turkish bath." 
" Hit him with a gob-stick," suggested the cook — 
or this rolling-pin " — he was flattening out pie-crust. 
A gob-stick or a rolling-pin," said the next on 
watch, " is too good for him. Here, take this," and 
passed the cook's hatchet along the lockers. 

The opening and closing of the hatch after the watch 
had gone on deck admitted a blast of air that made the 
man in the bunk nearest the steps draw up his legs. The 
flame in the lamp flared; whereat the original inquirer 
got up to set the lamp chimney more firmly over the 
base of the burner, and before he sat down put the ques- 
tion again. What he wanted to know was how Martin 
felt when he thought he was sure enough going. * ' The 
last fifteen or twenty minutes or so I bet you did some 
thinking didn't you, Martin? " 

[319] 



a 



THE SHORT STORY 



" A little," admitted Martin, and with a long arm 
gaffed another potato. " Toward the end of it the sea 
did begin to take on a gray look that I know now was 
grayer than any mortal sea ever could Ve been." 

" And what were you thinkin' of then, Martin? " 

" What was I thinking of? What — Lord, but these 
apple dumplings are great stuff, arn't they? You don't 
want to let any of those dumplings get past you, John- 
nie. Never mind how used up you feel, come out of 
your bunk and try 'em. Five or six good plump dump- 
lings inside of you and you'll forget you ever saw a 
dory. ' ' 

"He's asleep, Martin." 

1 ' Is he ? Well, maybe 'tis just as well. 'Twas a hard 
drag for poor John today. What was I thinking of, 
you asked me. Well, I'll tell you what I was thinking 
of. You know what store I set by a good razor. I 'd go 
a hundred mile for a good razor — a good razor — any 
time. You all know that, don't you? " 

"Yes — yes— " 

" Well, this last time out I brought aboard as fine a 
looking razor as ever a man laid against his face. Oh, 
I saw you all eying it the last time I took it out. Don't 
pretend — I know you. It's right there in my diddy- 
box, and before I turn in tonight it 's a good scrape I 'm 
going to give myself with it — yes. Well, when John- 
nie 'd said, ' Good-by, Martin ' — said it for the second 
time — '* Good-by, Martin, don't mind me any more — 
look out for yourself ' — said that, and I 'd said, ' Hold 
on a little longer ' to him for about the tenth time — 
well, about that time, when I did begin to think we were 
sure enough going — with it coming on dark and no sign 

[320] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

of the vessel in sight — then it was I couldn't help won- 
dering who in hell aboard this vessel was going to get 
my razor.' ' 

"When everybody had done laughing, and after two or 
three had told how they felt when they were on the bot- 
tom of a dory, the persistent one asked again, " Martin, 
but you must 've had some close calls in your time ? ' ' 

" My share — no more." He was taking a look 
around the table as he spoke. A lingering, regretful 
look, and then he gave up any further thought of it. 
" Ah-h," he sighed, " but I cert'nly took the good out 
of that meal," and leaning against the nearest bunk- 
board — his own — drew out his pipe from beneath the 
mattress. " My share and no more," he repeated, and 
reached across to the shelf in his bunk and drew forth 
a plug of tobacco. He cut off the proper quantity and 
rolled it around between his palms the proper length of 
time before he spoke again. With the pipe between his 
teeth he had to speak more slowly. " Any man that's 
been thirty years trawling will nat 'rally have a few 
things happen to him. Today makes the third time 
I 've been on the bottom of a dory — and cold weather 
each time — just my blessed luck — cold weather each 
time " — three times he blew through the stem of his 
pipe — "and I don't want to be there the fourth. 
Eddie-boy, hand me a wisp out of the broom at your 
elbow." 

While Martin was cleaning out his pipe somebody put 
the question generally. Would they rather be on the 
bottom of a dory out to sea or on a vessel piled up on 
the rocky shore somewhere? 

" On the rocks for me." 

[321] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" And forme." 

" Yes, a chance to get ashore from a wreck, but the 
bottom of a dory with the sea breaking over you, and 
it cold maybe — cert'nly it's never any too warm — 
wr-r-h!" 

There seemed to be no doubt of what they would take 
for their choice. " And yet," commented Martin when 
the last word had been said, " I dunno but the closest 
call ever I had was when the Oliver Cromwell went 
ashore and was lost off Whitehead." 

1 ' Cripes, but I 'm glad I warn 't on her. A bad busi- 
ness that — a bad business. Hand me that plate, will 
you, Martin " — this from the cook. 

' ' Sure, boy — here y 'are — an armful of plates. Cook 
on a fisherman's the last job I'd want — you're never 
done. And you're right it was a bad business, cook. 
"When you've seen nineteen men washed over one after 
the other, every man — every man but one, that is — 
putting up the divil's own fight for his life before he 
went — I dunno but what it must be worse than going 
down at sea altogether, all hands in one second — with 
no chance at all — though that must be hard enough, 
too." 

Silence for a while, and then Martin continued : ' ' If 
I had it to do over again ' ' — two long puffs — ' ' to do 
over and be lost instead of saved, I don 't know but what 
I 'd rather founder at sea myself. Nineteen men lost — 
eighteen good men — Lord, but 'twas cruel ! ' ' 

Martin, with his head back, was gazing thoughtfully 
up at the deck-beams. A gentle leading question, and 
he resumed. 

1 ' We left Gloucester that trip with the skipper 's — 

[322] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 



but to tell that story right a man ought to begin away 
back. But will you give me a match, somebody ? ' ' 

He lit up again and then settled himself snugly 
between the edge of the table and his bunk-board, after 
the manner of a man who is in for a long sitting-out. 
Once he really started there were but few interruptions. 
The loss of the Cromwell was a serious affair, and nobody 
broke in thoughtlessly; and only when Martin would 
stop to refill his pipe, or to light up again when he 
I found he had let it go out, did he make any halt himself. 

" What the Hoodleys of Cape Ann were, and are 
' still, ' ' began Martin, " of course all of you, or most all 
of you anyway, know. Or maybe some of you don't 
know. "Well, they were a hard crowd — but didn 't know 
it — the kind of people that whenever they got to talking 
about their own kind, never had any tales to prove 
maybe that there was even the lightest bit of wit or 
grace or beauty among them; no, none of that for the 
Hoodleys of Cape Ann. But to show you what thrifty, 
hard-headed fore-people they had, they could spin off, 
any of 'em, a hundred little yarns most any day, as if 
anybody on earth that knew those of them that were 
alive would ever doubt what the dead and gone ones 
must have been. Hard they were — even neighbors that 
didn't take life as a dream of poetry said that much of 
them. Hard they were — man, yes — the kind that lit- 
tle children never toddled up to and climbed on to their 
knees, nor a man in hard luck by any mistake ever 
asked the loan of a dollar of — the kind that never a 
man walked across the street to shake hands with. That's 
the kind they were. Take 'em all in all, I guess that 

[323] 



THE SHORT STORY 



the Hoodleys were about as hard a tribe as you'd find 
in all Essex County — surely 'tisn 't possible there were 
any harder. And yet you couldn't pick a flaw in 'em 
before the law. They were honest. Everybody had to 
say that for them — paying their debts, their just debts 
— as they put it themselves — and collecting their own 
dues, don't fear, and a great respect for the letter of 
the law — for the letter of it. And I mind they used to 
boast that for generations their people had kept clear 
of the poor-houses, and that all had been church-mem- 
bers in good standing. "Well, not exactly all — for to be 
exact and truthful — they themselves used to put it that 
way — there was one here and there that had broken 
away. But such had been rare, as one of them — a 
strong church-member — used to put it, and the devil 
is ever active, and speaking of the devil, this particular 
member 'd go on, there is always the blistering pit for 
the unrighteous. That last I s'pose he thought he ought 
to put in, because everybody knew that of all the people 
that fell from grace, the wickedest, the most blasphemous, 
the most evil of all evil livers had been those of the 
Hoodleys that had back-slided. Once they went to the 
bad they cert 'nly went beyond all hope ; and nobody did 
they curse out more furiously than their own people 
every time they did start in. 

" Well, the Hoodleys weren't a seafaring people origi- 
nally. They moved over to Gloucester, y'see, at one par- 
ticular time when everybody was expecting in some way 
to make money out of fishing. George Hoodley was a 
lad then — seventeen — with the hard kind of a face 
and the awkward body that everybody nat 'rally looked 
for in one of his breed. And he had the kind of a mind, 

[324] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 



I callate, that his father would like a boy of his to have. 
"Well, George signed right away for a boy's wages with 
a prudent master — old Sol Tucker it was — that went 
| in the Distant Shore so long. They used to say that Sol 
wore the same pair of jack-boots out of her that he had 
when he first went aboard, and there was eighteen years 
between his first and last trips in her. I mind the jack- 
boots — and they were eert'nly well patched when I saw 
them — though no more than twelve-year-old then. 
That'll give you an idea of Sol. And George Hoodley 
put in thirteen years with Sol, and thirteen long hard 
drags of years they must've been. I misdoubt that any 
of us here could 've stood those thirteen — no, sir, not for 
vessel's, skipper's and hand's share together. Well, 
George stood it, and I don't b'lieve he ever knew he was 
missing anything in life. But he had something to show 
for it, as he'd say himself. "When he left old Sol he 
was able to buy a half interest and go master of a good 
vessel. I went with him in her — the Harding — two 
trips — just two, no more." 

Martin halted to light up again, and somebody asked, 
f Warn't it the Harding, Martin, that had the small 
cabin? " 

" Yes, the smallest, they say, that ever was seen in a 
fisherman. Just about room to stand between the steps 
and the stove and between the stove and the bulkhead 
again — and not much better for'ard — a forec's'le so 
small that the crew used to say they had to go on deck 
to haul on their oilskins. She was all hold. Well, while 
he was in the Harding, George made a great reputation 
for all kinds of carefulness. Most men that went with 
him said he was altogether too careful for any mortal 

[325] 



THE SHORT STORY 



use ; and maybe that was so. But his savings kept piling 
up, and there was plenty of other careful men to ship 
with him and abide by him. 

" One thing that George and his people used to boast 
about was that he warn't like a good many other fisher- 
men. While a good many of them were putting in time 
ashore drinking, skylarking, or if it warn 't no more than 
to spent a quiet sociable evening with their friends or 
their own families — during all that George was attend- 
ing to business, for business it was to him. He was 
talking one day of those who said fishing was a venture, 
or even adventure, and he 'd been reading somewhere, he 
said, of the joy that somebody thought fine, strong men 
ought to get out of fishing. He almost smiled when he 
was telling it. The joy of fishing ! If you had a good 
trip of fish and got a good price for it, why yes, fishing 
was good fun then. But as far as he could see it was 
like any other kind of work. You put in about so much 
time at it and took good care of your money, and at the 
end of the year you had about so much to show for it. 
And as for the fun of fighting a breeze of wind that 
some of them talked about, seeing how long you could 
hang on to your canvas without losing your spars, or 
how far down you could let your vessel roll before she 'd 
capsize — none of that for him. And it was all rot, their 
pretending they got any fun out of it. They had the 
same blood and nerve and senses as any other humans, 
and he knew that for himself he was content to stay 
hove-to when it blew one of the living gales they talked 
about, and satisfied, too, to shorten sail in time, even if 
he was bound home, when it blew hard enough. Glouces- 
ter would be there when he got there — it wouldn 't blow 

[326] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

away. Cert'nly, he'd admit, the drivers 'd outsail him 
on a passage and beat him out of the market once in a 
while, but in the long run his way paid best. He could 
name the foolish fellows that 'd been lost — and the fin- 
gers of both hands wouldn't begin to name them; yes, 
and left families to starve, some of 'em — and he him- 
self was alive and still bringing home the fish, and every- 
body in Gloucester knew what he had to show for it. 

" Well, by that time, everybody in Gloucester did 
know what he had to show for it, and everybody in 
Gloucester said it was about time he began to look around 
for a wife, though nobody expected George Hoodley to 
look around for a wife after the regular manner of fish- 
ermen, who don't look around at all, so far as I c'n see. 
"We ourselves, or most of us, anyway, liking the girl 
pretty well and she willing, gen 'rally hurry up to get 
married 'bout as soon as we find ourselves with a couple 
of months' rent ahead. 

" But not that way with George Hoodley. It wasn't 
until he was forty-five that he began to look around 
after the manner of his people for a wife. There was 
to be no rushing into the expenses of matrimony; but 
with two good vessels, and a house all clear, a man might 
well think of it — or leastways I imagine that's the way 
he thought it out — if he wasted any time thinking of it 
at all. 

" Now, if George Hoodley had not been like other 
men during all the years he was fishing, if he hadn't 
joined in the talk of his mates on what was worth having 
in life — you know how fishermen gen 'rally talk when 
they get going on some things — even if George Hoodley 
pretended to think that he thought they were a lot of 

[327] 



THE SHORT STORY 



blessed fools, yet it is more than likely that the opinions 
of the men he went to sea with had their influence with 
him just the same. It stands to reason they were bound 
to after years of it. And then clear back he must've 
come of flesh-and-blood people like anybody else, for 
though nobody could imagine the Hoodleys having weak- 
nesses like other people, yet cert'nly, if you went far 
enough back, there must've been ancestors among 'em 
all — one or two — that enjoyed life the same as other 
people. 

" Well, for a wife George took a very pretty girl who 
was young enough — some of you that know her know 
that well — young enough to have had grandchildren to 
him. Twenty or twenty-one, light-haired, pretty face, 
and a trim figure. I didn't like her eyes or her mouth 
myself, but everybody agreed she was pretty. She had 
never been so far away from home that she could not be 
back again the same day — and that certified to her 
character with some people. For other things, she would 
come into some money when her father died. And her 
father didn't object to George Hoodley. He was a 
thrifty man, too, and said all right — made George 's way 
easy, in fact. 

" Now, I callate that George thought that he never 
did a wiser thing in all his life than when he married 
that girl. Among the men he knew there were some 
that 'd got pretty wives but no money ; and others, money 
but plain-lookers. He was getting both, good looks and 
money, and he could laugh at them all — those who 
wanted her because of the money in prospect or those 
others who were in love with her face. And maybe he 
didn 't laugh at some of 'em ! — the sail-carriers and 

[328] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

others who imagined that a reputation for foolishness at 
sea won women's hearts. It was a great stroke of busi- 
ness altogether. He would get his share of good living 
yet — he boasted of that. He had always taken the 
best care of himself — never drank and seldom smoked 
— and then only in the way of business — was in 
the prime of life, had a tough constitution, and his wife- 
to-be was young and pretty. He could laugh at all of 
them. 

" Nearly everybody in Gloucester said nice things to 
George. ' My, but you're the deep one — and lucky? 
Oh, no, you're not a bit lucky ! But you always did have 
a long head — ' That's the way most people talked to 
him, and he liked it. As for the few who didn't seem 
pleased — the three or four who hinted, but didn't ask 
outright if he thought he was doing a wise thing — 
George said it was easy enough to place them — they'd 
like to get her themselves. If he was only another kind 
of a man he might have been warned in time, but he was 
that kind that nobody felt sorry for. And that 's a hard 
thing, too. 

" Well, they were married, and the wonderful thing 
of George letting his vessel go out a trip without him 
was on exhibition to the people of Gloucester. Yes, sir, 
she went to sea the day he was married. He stayed 
ashore that trip — that trip, but not the second. 

" The truth was they didn't get along well together; 
which warn't remarkable maybe — she young and pretty, 
and he the age he was and more than looking it. Forty- 
seven's a fine age for some men, but not for George's 
kind — leather-skinned he was, with lean chops of jaws, 
a mouth as tight as a deck beam, a turkey neck — you've 

[329] 



THE SHORT STORY 



seen the turkey necks — and eyes that were cold as a 
dead haddock's. 

" George, I callate, was beginning to learn that a 
woman was a different proposition from a vessel, and 
that there were things about a woman that had to be 
studied out. Not that I think he tried overhard to study 
this one out. Listening to him as I had many a time 
before he got married, I knew that he figured that a 
woman, like everything else, had her place in the uni- 
verse, and she ought to know it — or be made to know it. 
And now here was his wife 's case — a steady man for a 
husband, a good house to live in, grub and her clothes all 
found, or anyway as much clothes as he thought fit and 
proper for her to have. Could a woman expect more, 
or a man do more, than that? 

1 ' 'Twarn 't long after he got married that things began 
to go wrong, not only at home but out to sea. There was 
the trip he broke his ankle. Coming home, he looked 
maybe for a little show of grief on the part of his wife ; 
but if he did, he didn't find it. Indeed, she even said 
he ought to go to a hospital instead of making it hard for 
her at home. 'Twas common talk that she said that. 

" Going out his next trip, with his leg not yet well- 
knit and himself having to limp out the door, he and his 
wife had words. Billie Shaw, passing by, heard them. 
1 I don 't care if I never see you again, ' he said. ' And 
if you think I'd care if I never saw you again either, 
you're mistaken. I wouldn't care if you're lost — you 
and your vessel — only I wouldn't like to see all the 
crew lost. ' 

" That last must have set him to thinking, for he 
didn't sail that day as he said he would, but put in a 

[330] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

day talking to people around town. I know he asked 
I me, for one, a lot of questions. I didn't know till later 
what he was driving at. 'Twas while he was question- 
ing me that he coaxed me into shipping with him. ' Just 
' this trip, Martin/ he said. ' And your cousin Dan 
| Spring's thinking of coming out with me this time — to 
J help me out. Two men left me suddenly today, and if 
j you'll come out Dan '11 surely come.' And so out of 
good-nature I said I'd go with him. It's blessed little 
he got out of me, though, in answer to his other ques- 
i tions, but he found plenty of others willing to talk. 
" "Well, on the passage out we all noticed he seemed 
an absent-minded man. We noticed, too, or thought we 
I did, that he used to forget that his leg warn't yet very 
strong and that now and then he had to pull up when 
it seemed to hurt him bad. 

1 1 That trip — well, it was a queer one from the first. 
With myself and my cousin Dan, who were dory-mates, 
it warn't nothing but accidents. There was that after 
the first haul of fish when we were dropping down to 
come alongside. It was a bit rough — that's a fact. 
Some said that for so careful a man it was surprising 
that the skipper had ordered the dories out at all that 
day. However, we were just ahead of her — under the 
end of her bowsprit almost — and of course Dan and 
myself nat 'rally looked for the skipper to look out for 
us. We were so near that Dan had taken in his oars 
and had the painter ready to heave aboard. I was at 
the oars. One stroke more, I thought, and we'll be all 
i right, when whing ! the first thing we knew around came 
! the vessel and down on us. I couldn't do anything with 
1 the dory, she being down to her gunnels with fish. Well, 

[331] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Dan had time to holler to me, and I hollered to him — no 
more than that — when she was on us. By a miracle, 
you might say, we both managed to grab the bob-stay. 
The stem of the vessel cut the dory like it was a cracker, 
and then under her keel it went. 

" Not knowing what to make of it all, we climbed 
aboard over the bow. Our faces were no more than 
above the knight-heads than the skipper yelled. We ran 
aft and asked him what was wrong. He stared at us for 
a second as if he couldn't understand. 

"' What 'sit? ' I asked. 

" ' Why, I thought you two were gone.' 

' ' ' And so we were for all of you. A man that 's been 
to sea as long as you, George Hoodley, ' I said, ' and put 
a wheel the wrong way ! Nobody ever said you were the 
cleverest man out of Gloucester to handle a vessel, but 
cert'nly you know down from up.' 

' ' ' Martin, ' he said, ' I give you my word. Just as I 
grabbed the wheel that time a sea came aboard, the ves- 
sel lurched and down on deck I went with my weak ankle 
giving way under me.' 

1 * Well, our dory was gone, but later in the trip one of 
the crew, Bill Thornton, was troubled with a felon on 
his finger. 'Twarn't anything very bad, and Bill him- 
self said it didn't amount to anything, but the skipper 
thought Bill'd better stay aboard, and his dory-mate 
with him. ' And, Martin, you and Dan take his dory,' 
says the skipper — ' you two being so used to each other 
it'll be the best way.' 

11 Well, that was all right. We took their dory and 
gear and went out the next set — only two days after 
our own dory had been lost, mind you. Well, this time 

[332] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

we got lost in the fog and were out overnight. It turned 
out a snowy night, and cold, with fog again in the morn- 
ing. That morning, so we heard from the crew later, 
the skipper said, after a little jogging about, • They must 
be gone — we may as well give it up.' Well, everybody 
I aboard thought there was a good chance for us yet, and 
; one or two hinted at that. But he wouldn't have it. 
' Run her westerly/ he said, and went below. Well, to 
everybody's surprise we popped up just then almost 
under her bow. 'Twas quite a little sea on at the time, 
I but the man at the wheel this time didn't have any bad 
, ankle. He jibed her over in time and we climbed aboard. 
One man ran down to call the skipper and tell him the 
news, but the skipper only swore at him. ' Do you mean 
to tell me that the watch shifted the course of this vessel 
without orders from me? I'll talk to him.' And he 
did talk to him, and in a most surprising way. We 
didn't know what to make of it. He raved. ' Discip- 
line,' he said — he'd always been a great hand for dis- 
cipline aboard his vessel, but this warn't any case for 
discipline — 'twas men 's lives. 

" Well, they expected to have two or three more days 
of fishing aboard the Cromwell after that day, but I 
made a kick. Never again would I haul a trawl for a 
skipper of his kind, I said. 

' ' ' What ? ' asked the skipper. ' You mean to mutinize 
on me ? ' 

" ' Call it mutiny or what you please,' said I, ' but 
myself and Dan don't leave this vessel again in a dory.' 
" ' Don't you know I can run into the nearest port, 
Newf 'undland or Nova Scotia, and put you ashore? ' 
" ' I do.' 

[333] 



THE SHORT STORY 



1 ' * Or take you both back to Gloucester and have you 
up before the court ? ' 

' ' ' You can put us up before forty courts — the high- 
est in the land, if you want — and maybe they'll sen- 
tence us to ten years in jail, or to be strung up to a yard- 
arm somewheres. But I don 't callate they will ; I don 't 
callate so — not after we tell our story. It's a fine 
thing fishermen have come to when their own skippers 
try to lose 'em.' 

' ' ' Lose you ? Me try to lose you ? And why in God 's 
name would I try to lose you ? ' 

" l Lord knows. But you do, and there's an end of 
it. Dan and I don't swing any dory over the rail of 
this vessel this trip again. ' 

" He said nothing to that. Only he looked at me, 
then a long look at Dan, and turned into his bunk again. 
Later in the day he drew out a quart bottle of whiskey 
and began to drink. That was a new thing to his crew 
that knew him so long. They'd pretty good reason to 
believe that he'd kept a bottle in his closet under lock 
and key for a little drink on the quiet when the dories 
were out and nobody by ; but they knew he did it slyly 
so as not to have the name of it, or maybe so's not to 
have to ask anybody to join him, and so save expense. 
But everybody knew that whatever liquor he took that 
way was not enough to hurt him. Yes, a sober man he 'd 
always been — everybody had to say that for him. But 
now he was drinking with all hands looking on, taking 
it down in gulps, and when the first quart was gone he 
brought out another, drinking by himself all the time. 

" However, he warn't drunk by a good deal when in 
the middle of the night he ordered all hands on deck to 

[334] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

make sail. The men thought he was crazy — but he was 
the skipper. If anything happened 'twas his lookout, 
not theirs. So they gave her the full mains '1, and then 
he ordered the man at the wheel to swing her off. 

1 ' Yes, sir, and what course ? ' 

1 ' ' What course ? Didn 't I say to swing her off ? Put 
her fair before it. Jibe over your fores '1 and let her 
run — let her run, I tell you. "Whichever way she goes 
let her run. ' 

" And we let her run all that night and all next day. 
She was under her winter rig — in March it was — no 
topm'sts, but the four lower sails alone were enough for 
any Gloucester fisherman that second night. I mind 
'twas nine o 'clock that night, and Abner Tucker 's watch. 
A staid, sober man was Abner. He'd been to sea for 
twenty years and been with George for ten years — 
stayed with him because he knew him for a prudent 
man, I s'pose. Well, Abner took the wheel, and getting 
the feel of it, cried out, ' Lord in heaven, it's like trying 
to steer two vessels — she's running wild! ' and braced 
himself against the wheel, but warn't braced firm 
enough, or he warn't strong enough, for he let her 
broach, and a sea swept her quarter, burying him and 
the vessel both. Over the top of the house went that 
sea and down into the cabin by the ton. They were 
floated out in the cabin and came tumbling up on deck. 
Josh Whitaker, a bait knife in his hand, jumped to the 
main peak halyards. 

" The skipper noticed him. ' What you goin' to do? ' 

" ' Cut,' says Josh. 

" ' You cut and I'll cut you! ' The skipper, too, had 
a bait knife, and he lunged with it for Josh. Then he 

[335] 



THE SHORT STORY 



stood guard by the halyards. ' Or if anybody else 
thinks to cut ' — and we saw the rest of it in his face — 
dark as it was, we saw that. 

' ' The skipper was still on guard there when Dan and 
myself came on deck for our watch — that was eleven 
o'clock. Dan went for'ard to look out and I took the 
wheel from Abner, and glad enough he was to turn 
the wheel over when he gave me the course. I looked 
in the binnacle to make sure he had it right. 

1 1 ' Still on that course ? ' I asked, when I 'd seen 'twas 
so. ' Where's the skipper? ' 

" ' Here,' said the skipper himself from between the 
house and the weather rail, where he was still watching 
that nobody bothered the halyards, I s'pose. 
1 What's it? ' 

1 ' ' How about the course ? ' I asked. 

" ' What's wrong with the course? ' 

" l No 'west by west half west — is it right? ' 

" ' No 'west by west half west, or whatever it is — 
yes. And why not? ' 

" ' Oh, nothin', if you say it's right.' 

'! ' And why isn't it right? Why not? Why don't 
you spit it out? What's wrong, anyway? ' 

" ' What's wrong? ' I said. ' Don't you know we 
warn't much more than three hundred miles off shore 
on this course when we swung her off last night, and 
we Ve been coming along now for twenty-three hours — 
and the clip she 's been coming ! ' 

1 ' He said nothing to that for a while, and then it was, 
' And so you don 't think the course is right ? ' 

" ' No, I don't — not if you're intending to make 
Gloucester. ' 

[336] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

1 ' l That so ? Not if I was intending to make Glouces- 
ter? And where in the name o' heaven am I headin' 
for if not Gloucester? ' 

' ' ' Where ? — where ? Damned if I know, ' says I. 
' Hell, maybe. ' 

" l That so? Well, Gloucester or hell, drive her, 
you. ' 

" ' Oh, I'll drive her.' I threw it back in his teeth 
that way, spat to looard, took a fresh hold of the wheel 
and did drive her just to let him know he couldn't scare 
me. Cripes, but I gave her all she wanted! 

■ ' It was wicked, though, the way she was going. She 
warn't a big sailer, the Cromwell — George Hoodley 
never did believe in the racing kind — but any old plug 
could 've sailed that night. Along toward midnight it 
got thick o' snow, I mind, and we came near running 
into a vessel hove to under a fores 1 — 'A fisherman, ' 
Dan for 'ard called out — and as we shot by her a warn- 
ing hail came to us. 

li ' What's that he said? ' asked the skipper of Dan. 

11 ' Something about where we're bound for,' answered 
Dan. 

" ' That so? What's it of his business? ' and then he 
went below for a spell. 

' ' From the wheel I could see him taking another drink 
under the cabin light. He had got to where he wasn't 
bothering to pour it into a mug, but took it straight from 
the bottle — long pulls, too. He came on deck again 
just as my watch and Dan's was up. To Charlie Feeney, 
who was next man to the wheel, I said that the skipper 
ought to be spoken to about hauling her up. So Charlie 
did. 

[337] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" ' Who in the devil's name is skipper of this vessel 
anyway? ' was all the answer he got. 

" Henry Carsick, who was Charlie's dory-mate, said 
he didn 't know what to make of it. ' I 'm blessed if ever 
I knew him to carry half this sail in a breeze before, 
and I 've been with him three years, ' said ke to me as he 
went for'ard. 

' ' Well, Dan and me hadn 't more than got off our oil- 
skins after standing watch, when a hail came from Henry 
on watch for'ard. l Some kind of a roaring ahead of us,' 
repeated Charlie from the wheel. And just then it was 
that, leaping like a hound, she hit something good and 
hard — a check, a grinding along her bottom, a rearing 
of her bow. But nothing small was going to stop her 
the clip she was going then, and whatever it was she was 
clear of it. By that time the whole crew was tumbling 
up on deck. ' God in Heaven, what is it? ' they called 
out one to another. Another leap of her, and it was 
clear white astern and on either side. ' A wall of rock 
ahead! ' said Henry Carsick and came tumbling aft — 
1 a ledge of solid rock, skipper ! ' 

1 ' ' Yes, ' said the skipper, in a kind of studyin ' tone — 
' and it was hell or Gloucester, warn 't it ' — he turned 
to me — ' I said it'd be, didn't I? ' 

11 ' That's what you did,' said I, 'and it ain't Glouces- 
ter. You ought to be proud of yourself — nineteen men, 
maybe, lost for you — nineteen men. I 'm not counting 
yourself — you ought to be lost. Will we put a dory 
over? ' 

" ' Put it over if you want to. Do what you please. 
I'm done with this vessel — I'm done with fishing.' 

" ' I guess that's right,' says I. ' And I guess you 

[338] 



j THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

! ain't th' only one that gets through with fishing tonight. ' 
I Then I turned to the crew: ' What d'y' say if we try 
! and get a dory over and see what 's around us ? ' 

' ' They said all right, and we unhooked the tackles. A 
few heaves and up went the dory into the air. It hung 
i there for a second or two. We tried to push it over, 
but the wind took it, tore it from us, and dropped it into 
I the sea. The sea took it, tossed it up and back against 
! the rail and on to the deck. One smash, another, another, 
i and it was kindling wood. 

" ' Try another,' said Dan, who was standing by the 
, rail to his waist in water. He had a line about his waist, 
and that was all kept him inboard. We hoisted another 
dory out of the nest, and we had to fight even as we 
were hoisting for a footing on her deck, it was that 
steep and the great seas running clean over her. Up 
into the air we hoisted the second dory — up and out 
again. Once more the howling wind and the boiling sea 
took it — once more 'twas kindling wood. 

" ' There's seven more left — try another,' said Dan. 
A great man, Dan. If I go to sea for forty years I never 
expect to see a better — I could 'most cry when I think 
of how he was lost that night. 

" ' One of my hands mashed to a pulp,' said some- 
body. 

" ' Well, we can't stop to doctor you,' I called to him. 
* Let somebody take your place at the tackles. Now, 
then, lads. I don't know that it'll do any good when we 
do get it over, but maybe we c 'n take a look around — 
maybe find a landing place somewheres. ' 

*' ' I'll go in her,' calls out someone. ' Give me a 
chance now — ' 

[339] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" ' My chance/ said Dan — ' my chance, ain't it, Mar- : 
tin? ' 

' ' ' Yes, ' says I to Dan, and looking back at it now I 
say, ' God forgive you, Martin Carr,' and yet 'twarn't no I 
fault of mine. 

1 ' Out went the dory, and when she hung for a second 
Dan swung himself after it. He made it and called, 
' Pay out that line! ' and dug in with the oars. We > 
could just see him. We were still paying out the line — [ 
we could still hear his voice, when ' Haul in — I broke \ 
an oar ! ' he called. 

" ' Haul in! ' said I; but when he went to haul in 
there was nothing to haul — the line had parted. » 

* ' ' God, he 's gone ! ' said somebody. 

" ' That's what he is/ said a voice beside me — 'I was i 
bound he would be. ' 

" 'Twas the skipper. From by the rail he crept up 
to me with a knife-blade shining — a bait knife it was, 
the same he'd had all night. And then I knew what it 
meant — he had cut the line. I stood away from him rl 
first, then I grabbed him and picked him up and had a 
mind to heave him over the rail, and then — I don't 
know why — I didn't. I dropped him on the deck. 
' You'll get yours before this night's over,' I said. 

" * A devil of a lot I care,' he said. 

" The rest of them, or at least those that warn't too | 
busy with the next dory or trying to look out for them- 
selves, called out to ask what was wrong with the two of 
us. I didn't answer, nor did the skipper. 

" Dan was only the first to go that night. We kept 
trying to launch dories — trying, but losing them — 
smashed to kindling-wood they were — until the whole 

[340] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

nine of them were gone. During that time four men 
were washed over. One, with a line about him, made a 
desperate try, but was hauled back dead, I mind. We 
laid his body on the house, and afterward, when I went 
to look for it, it was gone — swept over. The seas were 
wicked. 

1 ' The wind was blowing harder, the big combers were 
coming even higher, and the gang began to be washed off 
her deck and lost one after the other. We took to the 
rigging when we saw twarn't any more use on deck. 
And in the middle of it all what d'y' think the skipper 
did? What d'y' think he did — the man that was the 
cause of it all? Well, while his crew were going — to 
heaven or hell as it might be — washed over and lost, one 
after the other — he goes below and has a mug-up for 
himself. Yes, sir, goes into the f orec 's 'le and has a mug 
of coffee and a piece of pie. Somebody that'd seen him 
going below called out to the rest of us. The Lord's 
truth that. And the rest of us blasphemed to God — we 
were that black with rage against him. 

" Well, there was ten of us, I think, in the rigging, all 
hoping to be able to last until daylight, when we thought 
we might be able to see where we were. Hoping only 
'twas — not expecting — for 'twas getting colder, with 
the spray beginning to freeze where it struck and making 
hard work of holding on to the rigging. 'Twas wild — 
her sails still up, with the reef points beating a devil's 
tattoo where the canvas warn't tearing up and flying out 
like long-tailed ghostly things in the blackness. Lashed 
to the rigging we must've been for all of two hours, I 
callate. Some began to take note of the numbness creep- 
ing over them — one or two — the most discouraged. 

[341] 



THE SHORT STORY 



The warmer-blooded, or the strongest, tried to keep u 
a cheering talk — tried to crack jokes and one thing or 
another. 

1 ' Well, we had hope some of us of lasting through the 
night, when crack ! We knew what was coming then. I . 
slipped the half -hitch that had been holding me to the 
shrouds and climbed higher. I was 'most to the mast- 
head, clear of the gaff, when over the side went her fore- 
m 'st — half a dozen men clinging to the f orerigging, 
a-swaying and shaking — and after it went the mainm 'st 
with four more, I think, in her rigging. 

' ' Well, sir, when the f orem 'st went I was thrown into 
clear water. I had plenty of line to my hand, with a 
turn of it around the mast-head, and with that I hauled 
myself back. I hung on to an arm of the cross-trees 
for a while there before I started to work my way back 
along the mast toward the vessel. I didn't believe then 
I 'd ever live to reach the vessel. The sail, as I said, had 
been kept standing on her, and now it was lying flat on 
the water, now sagging down with the weight of the water 
over it, and now bellying into the air when a great sea 
would get under it. I saw a shadow of a man — hang- 
ing on to a reef point he was — go down with that sail 
once, then go up with it once, and then the sail split 
under the weight of the sea, and I never saw him again. 
But I heard him holler as he went. What he said I don 't 
know — I had to keep on crawling. The hoops of the 
sail were around the mast, of course, and I used them 
and the bolt-rope of the fores '1 where the sail was torn 
away to pull myself along. And, mind you, I had to 
watch out for the forem'st itself. It reared and tossed 
with one sea after another — me astride it most of the 

[342] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 



time — like a man on horseback, though hard riding 

! enough I found it. The least little tap of that and I 

knew where I 'd be — bait for the fishes that I 'd baited 

for so often. Well, between the hoops and the bolt-rope 

and the rigging I hauled myself along. And the way 

that mast rolled ! Forty times I swear I thought I was 

good as dead. But no. And so I dragged myself along, 

i watching out when I went upon the crests and holding 

; my breath when I was pulled down into the depths — 

hung on desperately, mindful that the quietest knock of 

I that big spar would end me then and there, and mindful, 

| too, that once my grip loosed I 'd be swallowed up in the 

I roaring. Tired I was — aye, and weak, but I kept on 

working toward the vessel's hull always. 

" Against the white sails and white foam I made out 
two others struggling like myself. ' That you, Bill? ' 
said one. ' Yes — that you, Mike ? ' I heard from the 
other. I knew who they were then, and called out 
myself. Between two seas one slipped from sight. The 
other still crept on. ' That you, Bill? ' I called out. 
* Bill's gone/ said the voice — 'twas Mike Cannon. 
c That's tough,' I said. ' It is that,' says Mike, ' after 
the fight he put up. But how 're you making out your- 
self? ' * Pretty good — how 're you? ' I said. ' Kind 
of tired. I doubt if I '11 hold out much longer — some- 
thing smashed inside my oilskins. My chest and a few 
ribs, I think — and one arm, too. A wild night and 
tough going, isn 't it, Martin ? ' 

" There was no more chance to talk. Two awful seas 
followed, and after the second a quiet spell — the back 
suction. I looked around. I thought I saw Mike, but 
warn't sure. I guess now I didn't, for another sea, the 

[343] 



THE SHORT STORY 

~ 

biggest of all, tossed the whole lot of wreckage back 
against the hull of the Cromwell. There was a grind- 
ing and a battering as the spars met the hull. Myself 
up in the air, I looked down and found myself over her j 
deck, and then — my guardian angel it must've been 
that whispered me then — I let go. * God in heaven! ' 
I found myself saying and fetched up on her deck, the 
luckiest man in all the North Atlantic. 

" Against what was left of the rail I found myself, 
close to what was left of the forerigging. At first I 
warn't sure just where I was at all, but that's where I 
found myself when my eyes were clear to see again. And 
when my eyes were clear I looked around. The hull of 
her was heaving to every sea, moving inshore maybe a 
foot at a time, with her bowsprit pointing to a shadow 
of rock or cliff ahead. I looked around again, and, so far 
as I could make out, everything — house, gurry-gids, 
booby-hatches — everything was gone off her. Only the 
two stumps of her masts seemed to be left on deck. But, 
no — the forec's'le hatch was left. Her bow, being so 
much higher than her stern, saved that. I saw that and 
— I don 't know why — toward the f orec 's 'le I crawled. 
The hatches were closed. I slid them back. Down the 
steps I went, and when I was below — I don 't know why 
either — I thought of the razors in my bunk. I might 's 
well get them couple of razors, I says to myself, and 
starts for my bunk, which was in the peak, the same 
bunk, clear for'ard on the starb'd side, that the Turkish- 
bath lad is in now. 'Twas like swimming down there. 
The water by the butt of the forem'st, 'bout like where 
I 'm sitting here tonight, was over my waist. I couldn 't 
help thinking then how deep 'twas and getting deeper 

[344] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

fast, with the seas pouring down the companion-way. I 

j was thinking of that — thinking I ought to've closed the 

hatches after me — and was looking back toward the 

i steps, when I heard a little noise, or thought I did, for 

the pounding of the seas overhead was making an awful 

| racket and I warn't sure. But I heard it again, the 

clinking of crockery like, and I looked around — back 

behind the steps — at last, and there, behind the stove, 

leaning up against the cook 's lockers — I 'd clean forgot 

him — was the skipper. He was having another mug-up 

for himself. 

" 'God!' I said; 'you here?' 

1 e He half turned, dropping a coffee mug he had in his 
hand. Then taking a second look : ' Man, but I thought 
it was the ghost of Dan Spring. But you two look some- 
thing alike. Come to think, you're cousins, ain't you? 
Man, if you could only see yourself ! Blood — blood — 
and bruises — and your eyes, man — your eyes! But 
have a mug of coffee. Warn't it lucky? — here's the 
coffee boiler hove up here on the lockers — and some 
coffee still left in it — and hot. And there's a pie in 
the grub locker — on the top shelf. If it 'd been on the 
bottom shelf it'd be all wet and floating around. Ain't 
that luck ? And look here — a good half pint of whiskey 
left yet. It 's been an awful night, ain 't it ? What d 'y ' 
say? ' 

" He held the bottle toward me. I took it from him 
and smashed it on the stove. And then I gave him a 
bit of my mind. ' And so, George Hoodley, you're so 
afraid, after all, to go to your death that you must go 
drunk, hah? The soul that the Lord gave you — that 
soul is going from a drunken body straight to the God 

[345] 



THE SHORT STORY 



that's going to judge you. And how 11 you be judged, 
d'y' think, for this night's work, George Hoodley ? Could 
you listen to what was said on deck tonight and not die 
of fright at what you've done? Did you hear Sam 
Catiss ? * I 'm not afraid to go, if go I must, ' says Sam 
" but, Lord, there's one or two things I wish I hadn't 
done, ' ' says Sam. You heard him — we all heard him — 
and then he was swept over. And but for you, George 
Hoodley, maybe he'd have had time to make his peace 
before he went. And up in the rigging — you warn't 
there, I know — even you, if you'd heard what Peter 
Harkins said when we all knew her spars were going — 
when Peter heard the first crack and knew what it meant. 
And knowing he was going, with his last free breath 
he said things of you that if I had an enemy I wouldn 't 
want him to hear — not if I hated him bad enough to 
want to see him in the bottom of the deepest, hottest 
hold of hell— ' 

" ' Hell! ' he breaks in; ' there ain't no hell — no 
heaven, nor God, nor anything.' 

" 'God forgive you for that. You — ' 

" * God forgive me? Martin, you talk like an old 
woman. I tell you, since I was no higher than one of 
my jack-boots I've been listening to talk of hell and 
heaven — mostly hell, though — and I used to believe it 
one time. Nobody believed it any more than I did till 
when — till I began to see that the very people that was 
talking it so hard warn't governed by what they said. 
What they wanted was everybody else to be governed 
by what they preached. I tell you I know. I've seen 
it in my own people — I know them better than you do. 
It's years now — I was one of the fools, one that never 

[346] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMW ELL 

let anybody, I thought, get the best of me at anything. 
You're one — ■ though you're a good man in your fool 
way, Martin. I had no grudge against you, not even 
when I tried to lose you in the dory. But I had to get 
rid of your dory-mate.' 

" ' Get rid of Dan? And why Dan? ' 

" l Why? There again! You mean to tell me you 
don't know? I looked around before I went out this 
trip. Nobody 'd tell me, but I knew his first name was 
Dan — Dan something. One day when the crew was out 
hauling the trawls I rummaged his bunk and found part 
of a letter in my wife's writing under his mattress. 
That was the same day I ran over Dan and you in the 
dory. 'Twas for that chance I'd been pretending my 
ankle warn 't better. Weak ankle, bah ! ' He drove the 
bad foot against the stove and crushed in the oven door. 
* Anything weak about that foot — bah ? ' ' Dear Dan, ' ' 
the note read — I know my wife 's handwriting, and his 
name's Dan.' 

' - * Wait a bit — wait a bit. How do you know it was 
this Dan ? Are there no other Dans in Gloucester ? ' 

' ' ' How do I know ? And it in his bunk — under the 
mattress in his bunk? ' 

" * That's all right. And whose bunk was it before 
Dan Spring got it? Another Dan's, warn't it — Dan 
Powell 's ? And didn 't he leave the mattress behind him 
when he left this vessel trip before last? Didn't he? 
And warn't Dan Powell just the kind of a man that'd 
do a thing like that, and not Dan Spring — my own 
cousin ? And so that 's the bottom of it ? Nineteen souls 
gone because you thought — just thought only — that 
one of them was fooling you. And for a woman that 

[347] 



THE SHORT STORY 



warn't worth Dan Spring's little finger. That's the 
truth, George Hoodley. But if you'd been brought up 
different, if you'd studied to understand the good side 
of people instead of the other side and how to get the 
best of them and to make money out of them and save 
it, you both might 've come safe out of it. But you 
warn't that kind. 'Twarn't in your blood — nor in 
none of your people. Wrong's wrong — I got nothing 
to say about that — but human nature 's human nature. 
Why should you expect, George Hoodley, to get the fine 
things in life? Why warn't you content with money? 
You'd earned that. What had you to offer a handsome 
young woman that liked a good time? What had you, 
even supposing she was the kind you could trust ? Any- 
thing that women love? Not a blessed thing. You've 
spent your life with about one idea in your head, and 
that idea had nothing to do with being pleasant or kind 
to others, or good to anybody but yourself. Miles away 
from the kind of thing that women love were you all the 
time. You come to nigh fifty year of age — you with 
your hard face and hard mouth and eyes like — God, like 
a dead fish's eyes tonight, no less — don't you know 
that whoever was going to marry you warn't going to 
for love ? You had a right to marry some lean old sour- 
mouthed spinster with a little money like yourself. What 
made you think that beauty and love was for you ? But 
even in marrying you thought to make a good bargain — 
and got fooled. And by the daughter of a man of your 
own kind, too. D'y' s'pose her father didn't know? 
God help you, George Hoodley, 'twas him hooked you — 
'twas him made the good bargain, not you. Why, before 
ever you married her 'twas common talk she warn't the 

[348] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

girl for any man to trust. But what good is it to talk 
of that now? Nineteen men gone, for I don't count 
you — you're no man. You're a — but I won't say it. 
Lord, but I'm tempted to choke you where you stand. 
Only when I think of those fine men — and poor Dan 
Spring — ' 

" ' Dan Spring? Don't tell me 'twarn't Dan Spring, 
the—' 

" ' Hold up,' I says to that — ' hold up, or close as we 
both are to death now and soon to go, I'll choke you 
where you stand — I '11 send you to your God, or to the 
devil, with the print of my fingers around your turkey 
gobbler's throat, if you say aught of Dan — Dan was 
my own kind and I know him. "Whatever faults he had 
— and maybe he had some — it warn 't in the heart of 
Dan Spring to undervalue good women, or to mix with 
married women of any kind, let alone the wife of a man 
he was to go ship-mate with. No, sir, not if he didn't 
have a wife and children of his own — wife and children 
that'll have to suffer all their lives because of you, and 
they '11 never know what brought it all about. But years 
from now they'll still be without food and clothing 
because of you. When I think of it, George Hoodley, 
I misdoubt they'd count it against me in the other world, 
where we '11 both be soon with the others, if I was to take 
you by the throat and wind my fingers around your 
windpipe and choke and choke and squeeze and squeeze 
you till your tongue came out and your eyes popped and 
your face got blue and then black and you — ' 

1 ' He drew back against the lockers and put his hands 
before his face. ' Martin, Martin, don't! ' he said, for 
in truth I all but had hold of him in spite of myself. 

[349] 



THE SHORT STORY 



11 ' I'm not going to,' I said. ' I have enough already 
to account for. There's two or three things I wish I 
hadn't done, and maybe if I sent you to death a few 
minutes sooner than you're going, I'd be sorry for it, 
too, later on. I 'm going on deck now. This vessel won 't 
last much longer. She 's breaking as it is — and up to 
our chests in water here now. ' 

" Well, all the time we were below the big seas never 
let up. Some of her outside planks were working loose 
from their frames when I left him to go on deck again. 
Her deck planking, too, was coming apart. I almost fell 
through the opened-up deck into her hold when I was 
coming out of the forec's'le. I didn't know what to 
do quite, but climbed up on toward her bow at last, 
hanging on where I could, dodging seas and the loose 
bits of wreck they were carrying with them. At the 
knight-heads I looked around and ahead. Astern and 
to either side 'twas nothing but rocks and the white 
sea beating over them. Ahead I could make out a wall 
of rock — I guessed where I was — to the west'ard 
of Canso, off Whitehead. I knew that coast — and a 
bad coast it was. Up on the bowsprit, crawling out 
with the help of the foot-ropes and the stops hanging 
down and the wreck of the jib and stays, I began to think 
I had a chance — if I could only live till the daylight 
that was coming on. I climbed farther out. Hard work 
it was, and I soon cast off my boots. At the end of the 
bowsprit I got a better look. A dozen feet away was 
the ledge with a chance for a footing. If a man could 
jump that — but what man could — from a vessel's bow- 
sprit? But now and then, perhaps every minute or so, 
the bowsprit under a more than average big sea, lifted 

[350] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

and sagged a little nearer the cliff. At the right time a 
man might make the leap, I thought. But if he missed ? 
I looked down with the thought and saw nothing but 
rocks and a white boiling below. ' If you miss, Martin, ' 
I said to myself, ' maybe you'll live five seconds — maybe 
ten — but more likely maybe you'd keep clear of being 
mashed to jelly for just about a wink of your eye. ' And 
'twas enough to make a man wink his eyes just to look 
at the white boiling hell beneath. I cast off my oilskin 
jacket while I was thinking of it, and then my oil pants. 
After that went my jersey, flannel shirt and trousers. I 
meant to have a good try at it, anyway. 

' ' Looking back before I should leap, who did I see but 
the skipper. In the noise of the sea I had not heard 
him. He, too, had cast off his boots and was even then 
unbuttoning his oilskins. He must've known I was 
watching him, for he said, ' Don't throw me off, Martin 
— don't.' 

" ' Who's going to? ' I asked. 

" ' That's right — don't. Give me a chance now, 
Martin.' 

" ' Like you gave your crew? ' 

1 ' ' Oh, don 't, Martin — don 't ! I was crazy. All that 
I said about not believing in God and hell — I didn't 
mean that. I'm afraid of it — afraid. I was always 
afraid of it, but never like now, Martin — never so 
afraid of the burning pit as now — never — never. Help 
me up, Martin — I 'm weak — I can hardly stand. Help 
me, won't you, Martin? You're twice the man I am — 
no man ever sailed with me had your strength, Martin — 
help me, won't you, Martin? ' 

" I lifted him up, and the two of us clung to the end 

[351] 



THE SHORT STORY 



of the bowsprit. He looked weak as water then and I » 
pitied him, and pitying him I pointed out what chance j 
we had. ' There's the cliff and there's what's below. 
It 's one chance in ten to a man that can leap well. ' 

" * I never could leap well, Martin. ' 

" * No, you couldn't — nor do anything much that 
other boys could do — no money in leaping, I s'pose. But 
there it is — and you c 'n have your choice. Will you 
jump first or last? ' 

" ' You go first, Martin. If you make it, maybe you 
c 'n help me — maybe pass me a bit of line or something. 
See, I've got a bit of line I took along. You go first, 
Martin — you go first. It's an awful jump to take, 
though. ' 

" ' There's men of your crew took more awful jumps • 
tonight, George Hoodley. They jumped from this world 
to the other when the spars went. Well, I'm going. 
Give me room to swing my arms. Now, if I miss, then 
I s 'pose we '11 be standing up and giving account together ] 
in a few minutes. I've got enough on my conscience, \ 
but I'm glad I'm not you. Stand clear of me now — 
when she lifts I 'm going. ' 

1 ' The Cromwell lifted. Her bowsprit rose up and up 
till the end of it was higher than the ledge in the wall 
of rock before us. I waited till the last little second — • 
till the bowsprit swayed in toward the cliff, and then, 
while it balanced there, and before it started to settle 
again, knowing, as you all know, the power that 's in the 
uplift of a sea, I gathered myself and jumped. And 
'twas a good leap. I didn't think I could do it, cold and 
numb as I'd been feeling. A good leap — yes. And 
'twas the wet, slippery shelf of rock I landed on, but I 

[352] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

went a yard clear, and even when I slipped a little I 
checked myself before I slipped back to the edge, and 
was safe. Well, I lay there till I felt my nerve steady 
again, then stood up and called for the line from the 
skipper. 

' ' ' Now, when you jump, ' I says, ' I '11 get what brace 
I can here, so if you slip on the edge same 's I did there '11 
be a chance to save you. But mind you, George Hoodley, 
if I find I can't hold you up — if it's to be your life or 
mine — it's you that's got to go. Mind that. And 
hurry — throw it quick, or I '11 cast off the line altogether. 
That bowsprit won't be there in a few minutes maybe. 
Hurry up.' 

" ' But you'll hang on, won't you, Martin? You've 
got the strength if you want to use it. ' 

" ' Jump, man, jump afore you lose your nerve 
entirely,' I hollers. 

" He threw the line to me, after taking one end of it 
around his waist. The other end I took around my 
waist, my end half hitched so I could slip it in a hurry. 
I warn't throwing my life away for him if I knew it. 

' ' Well, he jumped at last. And the bowsprit rose full 
as high and gave him full as good a chance as I'd got. 
But even so he fell a little short. His feet only caught 
the edge of the shelf. He staggered, and seeing how it 
was, I braced my feet well as I could and hauled. He 
came in, sagged away, I bracing my feet — they were 
slipping — in a crack in the rock of the ledge, I dug 
the fingers of one hand, the other hand to the line, and 
hung on. We were gaining, he was fairly on his feet, 
and I felt the strain easing, when a sea that swept up the 
side of the cliff like a tidal wave took him clear of every- 

[353] 



THE SHORT STORY 



thing. It would have swept me, too, but I gripped where \ 
I could get a hold with the fingers of my one loose hand 
in the crack in the rocks and hung on there — one hand 
to the crack and the other to the line — hung on so, sup- 
porting the weight of myself and the skipper until I \ 
felt my muscles getting hot and heavy and my breath \ 
coming fast. He was floundering somewhere on the edge 
of the cliff. I hollered to him, though feeling almost 
certain he was battered to pieces by then — ' How is it \ 
with you, George — how is it, Man ? ' but there was no f 
answer. Again I hollered, and again no answer. And 
then, when I was satisfied that it was only the last ounce 
of strength I had left, I called out, ' Help yourself, 
George — why don't you help yourself? ' No answer. 
Once more I called, and once more getting no answer, I 
knew then he must've been beaten to death against the 
rocks, and that 'twas his dead weight was hanging to (< 
me. And yet I called once more to make sure. But still !: 
getting no answer, ' The Lord have mercy on your soul, / 
George Hoodley,' I said, and let slip the line." 

j) 

Toward the end of Martin 's story it had become very 1 
quiet in the forec's'le. Nobody said anything, neither 
broke in with a question nor offered any comment, until 
after a long silence, and then not until after Martin him- : 
self had repeated absently, as if to himself, and after a 
long indrawn breath, ' ' And then I let slip the line, ' ' and 
only then did he look around and seem to realize that he I 
was not on the ledge off Whitehead. 

' ' And after you cast off the line — what then, Mar- 
tin? " 

" Well," resumed Martin, " the weight being gone : 

[354] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

made a great difference to me, but it was quite a while 
before I could stand on my feet. Even then I didn't 
have the courage to look down right away, but climbing 
to one side to the very top of the cliff, I laid flat on my 
stomach and looked over the edge. 'Twas good light 
then, and I could see the body of George Hoodley below 
— tossing about like an eggshell, as if 'twas no more 
than sea-weed in a sea-way. And that was the end of it. 
Even if he warn 't dead at the time — even if he warn 't 
dead when I let go the line, and it had to be me or him, 
it ought to 've been him. If it was a friend now — if it 
was Dan, say — I don 't know what I would do. I hope 
I'd have the strength not to cast loose the line.' ' 

It was very quiet again. The boot-heels of the new 
watch on deck, the rasping of the booms as the vessel 
jibed, the whistle of the rising gale, the slap of the sea 
outside them, the skipper's voice on deck — the atmos- 
phere stirred Martin again. " 'Twas a night like this 
we swung the Cromwell off to the west'ard. I shouldn't 
wonder but what he 'd be takin ' the mains '1 off her soon, 
won't he? " — this to the old watch, who had just come 
down the companion-way and was wringing his mitts 
out by the stove. 

" The mains '1, Martin? " repeated the watch in sur- 
prise. " Why, the mains Vs been off her for hours — 
she's under a trys'l and jumbo." 

" The mains '1, Martin," explained one, " was taken 
off her just after you and Johnnie were taken aboard. 
You were pretty tired and didn't notice maybe at the 
time." 

" Lord, I must've been tired — not to know it when 
the mains 'l's taken off a vessel I'm in. There was never 

[355] 



THE SHORT STORY 



a minute the night the Cromwell was lost that I was as: 
tired as that. No, sir, not even when I laid on the cliff 
in the morning and looked down for George Hoodley 's 
body." 

" Speakin' of that, Martin — didn't some of the 
bodies come ashore ? ' ' This from the cook, who, inci- 1 
dentally, feeling a little less hurried, was putting a few I 
shovels of coal into the stove before he should turn ini 
for the night. 

" There were two bodies came ashore," resumed Mar- 
tin. " And that was a sad thing, too. I was going up 
to see if I couldn't get some clothes to hide my naked- i 
ness and maybe a pair of boots and a bite to eat and a 
bit of fire to warm up by somewhere, when I met a man. 
'Twas good light by then. He was coming down a bit of 
beach behind the cliff. I told him my vessel had been 
wrecked and I was all that was left of the crew. And 
he fixed me up as well as he could and came back with 
me to the beach, and there 's where the sad part came in. 
One of the Cromwell's crew, Angus MacPherson, had 
been fishing out of Gloucester twelve years, and every 
fall he said he was going home to see the old people. I 
knew that as well as I knew that he'd been sending 
money home regularly to the old people. If it hadn't 
been for Angus they'd had a hard time of it, I callate, 
those twelve years. Well, he never went home as he said, 
but here was the very place Angus came from and this 
was the way he came home at last. That same afternoon 
I helped to bury him and to carry his old mother away* 
from the grave when she couldn't carry herself. God 
help us, but there's hard spots in life, ain't there? 

" The other body that came up was the skipper's. 

[356] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMWELL 

. _ 

I And him I went to Gloucester with. And maybe there 'd 
j be no more to that, but getting into the Gloucester sta- 
; tion, just as the train hauled up, who should happen to 
; be at the station but the skipper's wife — his widow, 
j then, of course. She knew well enough what had hap- 
| pened — everybody in Gloucester knew — the papers 

full of it the day before — but she didn't know that I, 

j * 

! the one man saved from the wreck, was on the train. 
I Nobody knew — I didn't send any word ahead. But it 
j was only three days since the vessel was lost, but was 
I she crying her eyes out ? "Was she ? — the — the — but 
I won't say it. 

" I goes up to her. ' Mrs. Hoodley,' says I, ' I've 
brought home your husband 's body for burial. ' 

" D'y' think she thanked me? Indeed! I saw by 
her face I 'd made a mistake not to bury him with Angus 
down Whitehead way. And then she makes eyes at me. 
God's truth. Makes eyes at me, while the box that her 
husband 's corpse was in — and I knew what a battered, 
bloody corpse it was — was being lifted out of the bag- 
gage car and put into a wagon. She gave orders then 
and there to have it taken straight to the grave-yard, 
and when it was buried, mind you, she warn't there — 
not even for decency's sake. But going from the sta- 
tion while her husband's body was being carried away, 
she held her head up and took note of who was looking 
at her. That's what she liked — people to notice her. 
And looking at her I cursed George Hoodley for a fool 
that didn't drown her if he was bound to drown some- 
body, instead of the man that he thought had wronged 
him. So there you have it — the truth of the Oliver 
Cromwell — the part that didn't get into the papers/ ' 

[357] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" What was it the papers did say about it, Martin? ' : 

" Oh, what they said was pretty near right so far as 
it went, but they didn't know the whole truth — and 
don't yet. They said a word or two 'bout his leaving a 
wife. No great harm done in that, I s 'pose. As for him- 
self, they said he was thrifty, and hard-working, and 
careful — gen 'rally careful, they might Ve said — and 
successful. And so he was, I s'pose. But I think I'll be 
turning in, for after all there 's nothing like a good sleep, 
is there? Where's Johnnie? Still asleep? Well, he's the 
wise lad to be getting his good sleep 'stead of listening 
to my long-winded stories. Maybe if we all turned in 
there 'd be more of us good and strong to haul a trawl 
again tomorrow. ' ' He picked up his pipe. It was cold. 
" And now there's something. The man that'd invent 
something to keep a pipe going when you lay it down 
without smokin' itself all up'd make a lot of money, 
wouldn't he? And yet maybe it's just as well for some 
of us. I callate I 've smoked enough, anyway. ' ' 

" But, Martin, before you turn in, what's become of 
Hoodley's widow? " 

" Oh, her? She and Dan Powell got married since, 
and they 're both getting all that 's coming to them. He '11 
go out and get lost some day, too, maybe, to get away 
from her. I wouldn't be surprised anyway if he did. 
Only before he goes, being a different kind of a man 
from George Hoodley and knowing women of her kind 
better, he won't worry so much about the man as about 
her. He'll see that she's put out of the way before he 
sails — or at least that 's my idea of it — or maybe it 's 
only that I half hope he will. But I think 1 11 be turning 



[358] 



THE TRUTH OF THE OLIVER CROMW ELL 

He tucked his pipe away under his mattress, slipped 
out of his slip-shods, slacked away his suspenders and 
laid his length in his bunk. He was about to draw the 
curtain, but his eye catching the eye of the watch, who 
was then hauling off his wet boots, he had to ask, 
' What's it look like for the morning, Stevie — what'd 
the skipper say? " 

" He says that unless it moderates a bit more than it 
looks as if 'twill now, we'll stay aboard in the morning." 

" Well, here's one that ain't sorry to hear that. I 
don't mind sayin' now that it's all over, that hanging on 
to the bottom of that dory warn't any joke today. I'm 
good and tired. 'Twas a night like this we headed the 
Cromwell to the west'ard. ' Hell or Gloucester,' says he, 
and it warn't Gloucester. Good-night." 

STUDY NOTES 

This story is the longest in the book. What reason 
can you find in the treatment of the characters to make 
the story long? In the management of background? 
Does the following statement of the author explain the 
structure of the story and make it clear why he was so 
long in getting to the real story of the Cromwell? 

" In telling this story, based on an actual occurrence, 
I was almost as much interested in portraying fishing 
life and showing the manner of man the narrator, Martin 
Carr, was, and what was doing in that forec's'le while 
Martin Carr was talking, as in narrating the fact itself. ' ' 

Would the story have seemed true to the characters 
" in that forec's'le " if the author had let it begin 
abruptly with the Cromwell account and end when that 
was told ? 

[359] 



THE SHORT STORY 



The reader accustomed to swift narrative, rapidly 
disposing of the enveloping incidents and reaching the 
initial incident, will wonder why Mr. Connolly is so 
deliberate — why one sixth of his story is gone before the 
story of the Oliver Cromwell begins. Is there a legiti- 
mate excuse in this case for such deliberation? Would 
the story be better if stripped of its enveloping action — 
the capsizing of Martin's dory and the rescue? Give i 
reasons for your answers. 

In applying the time scheme to this story, do not con- 
fuse the time of the telling by Martin with the time of 
the real story, which is the wrecking of the Cromwell. 
The time should be reckoned from the initial incident — 
the shipping of Martin and Dan Spring as fishermen on 
the fatal trip — to the culmination in the wreck. 

Would the story have been stronger and more real if 
it had closed with ' ' ' The Lord have mercy on your soul, 
George Hoodley, ' I said, and let slip the line. ' ' Or is it 
best as it is, trailing off to a conclusion in the general 
conversation of the men ? 



t360] 



SAMUEL * 
By Jack London 

Jack London (1876- ) is a native of California. He was 
born in San Francisco, educated in the University of California 
and lives in California at present. The material for his novels 
and stories is drawn largely from first hand experience with 
life. As a novelist he is best known through The Gall of the 
Wild, The Sea Wolf, and Martin Eden. Many of his stories 
do not conform technically to the requirements of the Short 
Story, but are tales or pictures of life so convincingly drawn 
as to compel attention to the phases of life they illustrate. 

Margaret Henan would have been a striking figure 
under any circumstances, but never more so than when 
! I first chanced upon her, a sack of grain fully a hundred- 
weight on her shoulder, as she walked with sure though 
tottering stride from the cart-tail to the stable, pausing 
for an instant to gather strength at the foot of the steep 
steps that led to the grain-bin. There were four of these 
steps, and she went up them, a step at a time, slowly, 
unwaveringly, and with so dogged a certitude that it 
never entered my mind that her strength could fail her 
and let that hundred-weight sack fall from the lean and 
withered frame that well-nigh doubled under it. For 
she was patently an old woman, and it was her age that 
made me linger by the cart and watch. 

* Copyright 1913 by Dodd, Mead and Company, 1914 by The 
Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the author 
from The Bookman for July, 1913. Included in the volume 
The Strength of the Strong. The Macmillan Company, 1914. 

[361] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Six times she went between the cart and the stable, i 
each time with a full sack on her back, and beyond pass- 
ing the time of day with me she took no notice of my 
presence. Then, the cart empty, she fumbled for matches 
and lighted a short clay pipe, pressing down the burning 
surface of the tobacco with a calloused and apparently 
nerveless thumb. The hands were noteworthy. They 
were large-knuckled, sinewy, and malformed by labor, ; 
rimed with callouses, the nails blunt and broken, and 
with here and there cuts and bruises, healed and healing, \ 
such as are common to the hands of hard-working men. , 
On the back were huge, upstanding veins, eloquent of 
age and toil. Looking at them it was hard to believe [ 
that they were the hands of the woman who had once 
been the belle of Island McGill. This last, of course, I ? 
learned later. At the time I knew neither her history • 
nor her identity. 

She wore heavy man's brogans. Her legs were stock- | 
ingless, and I had noticed when she walked that her 
bare feet were thrust into the crinkly, iron-like shoes 
that sloshed about her lean ankles at every step. Her • 
figure, shapeless and waistless, was garbed in a rough 
man's shirt and in a ragged flannel petticoat that had 
once been red. But it was her face, wrinkled, withered 
and weather-beaten, surrounded by an aureole of unkept 
and straggling wisps of grayish hair, that caught and 
held me. Neither drifted hair nor serried wrinkles could 
hide the splendid dome of a forehead, high and broad : 
without verging in the slightest on the abnormal. 

The sunken cheeks and pinched nose told little of the 
quality of the life that flickered behind those clear blue [ 
eyes of hers. Despite the minutiae of wrinkle-work that J 

[362] 



SAMUEL 



somehow failed to weazen them, her eyes were clear as a 
girl's — clear, out-looking, and far-seeing, and with an 
open and unblinking steadfastness of gaze that was dis- 
concerting. The remarkable thing was the distance 
between them. It is a lucky man or woman who has 
the width of an eye between, but with Margaret Henan 
the width between her eyes was fully that of an eye 
and a half. Yet so symmetrically molded was her face 
that this remarkable feature produced no uncanny effect, 
and, for that matter, would have escaped the casual 
observer's notice. The mouth, shapeless and toothless, 
with down-turned corners and lips dry and parchment- 
like, nevertheless lacked the muscular slackness so usual 
with age. The lips might have been those of a mummy, 
save for the impression of rigid firmness they gave. Not 
that they were atrophied. On the contrary they seemed 
tense and set with a muscular and spiritual determina- 
tion. There and in the eyes was the secret of the certi- 
tude with which she carried the sacks up the steep steps, 
with never a false step or over-balance, and emptied 
them in the grain-bin. 

" You are an old woman to be working like this," I 
ventured. 

She looked at me with that strange, unblinking gaze, 
and she thought and spoke with the slow deliberateness 
that characterized everything about her, as if well aware 
of an eternity that was hers and in which there was 
no need for haste. Again I was impressed by the enor- 
mous certitude of her. In this eternity that seemed so 
undubitably hers, there was time and to spare for safe- 
footing and stable equilibrium — for certitude, in short. 
No more in her spiritual life than in carrvin£ the 

[363] 



THE SHORT STORY 



hundred-weights of grain, was there a possibility of a 
misstep or an overbalancing. The feeling produced in 
me was uncanny. Here was a human soul that, save 
for the most glimmering of contacts, was beyond the 
humanness of me. And the more I learned of Margaret 
Henan in the weeks that followed the more mysteriously 
remote she became. She was as alien as a far-journeyer 
from some other star, and no hint could she nor all the 
countryside give me of what forms of living, what heats 
of feeling, or rules of philosophic contemplation, actuated 
her in all that she had been and was. 

" I wull be suvunty-two come Guid Friday a fort- 
night, ' ' she said in reply to my question. 

" But you are an old woman to be doing this man's 
work, and a strong man 's work at that, ' ' I insisted. 

Again she seemed to immerse herself in that atmos- 
phere of contemplative eternity, and so strangely did it 
affect me that I should not have been surprised to have 
awaked a century or so later and found her just begin- 
ning to enunciate her reply : 

11 The work hoz tull be done, an' I am beholden tull 
no one." 

1 ' But have you no children, no family relations ? ' ' 

" 0, ay, a plenty o' them, but they no see fut to be 
helpun' me." 

She drew out her pipe for a moment, then added, with 
a nod of her head toward the house, " I luv' with me- 
self." 

I glanced at the house, straw thatched and commodious, 
at the large stable, and at the large array of fields I knew 
must belong with the place. 

* ■ It is a big bit of land for you to farm by yourself. ' - 

[364] 



SAMUEL 



1 ' 0, ay, a bug bit, suvunty acres. Ut kept me old mon 
buzzy, along with a son an' a hired mon, tull say nought 
o' extra honds un the harvest an' a maid-servant un the 
house. ' ' 

She clambered into the cart, gathered the reins in her 
hands, and quizzed me with her keen shrewd eyes. 

' ' Belike ye hail from over the watter — Ameruky, 
I 'm meanun ' ? ' ' 

- ' Yes, I 'm a Yankee, ' ' I answered. 

" Ye wall no be findun' mony Island McGill folk 
stoppun ' un Ameruky ? ' ' 

"No; I don't remember ever meeting one in the 
States." 

She nodded her head. 

" They are home-lovun' bodies, though I wull no be 
sayun' they are no fair-traveled. Yet they come home 
ot the last, them oz are no lost ot sea or kult by fevers 
an' such-like un foreign parts." 

1 ' Then your sons will have gone to sea and come home 
again? " I queried. 

" 0, ay, all savun' Samuel oz was drowned." 

At the mention of Samuel I could have sworn to a 
strange light in her eyes, and it seemed to me, as by 
some telepathic flash, that I divined in her a tremendous 
wistfulness, an immense yearning. It seemed to me that 
here was the key to her inscrutableness, the clew that if 
followed properly would make all her strangeness plain. 
It came to me that here was a contact and that for the 
moment I was glimpsing into the soul of her. The ques- 
tion was tickling on my tongue, but she forestalled me. 

She tckh'd to the horse, and with a " Guid day tull 
you, sir," drove off. 

[365] 



THE SHORT STORY 



A simple, homely people are the folk of Island McGill, 
and I doubt if a more sober, thrifty, and industrious 
folk is to be found in all the world. Meeting them abroad 
— and to meet them abroad one must meet them on the 
sea, for a hybrid seafaring and farmer breed are they — 
one would never take them to be Irish. Irish they claim 
to be, speaking of North of Ireland with pride and sneer- 
ing at their Scottish brothers ; yet Scotch they undoubt- 
edly are, transplanted Scotch of long ago, it is true, but 
none the less Scotch, with a thousand traits, to say noth- 
ing of their tricks of speech and woolly utterance, which 
nothing less than their Scotch clannishness could have 
preserved to this late day. 

A narrow loch, scarcely half a mile wide, separates 
Island McGill from the main land of Ireland; and once 
across this loch, one finds himself in an entirely different 
country. The Scotch impression is strong, and the 
people, to commence with, are Presbyterians. "When it 
is considered that there is no public house in all the 
island and that seven thousand souls dwell therein, some 
idea may be gained of the temperateness of the com- 
munity. Wedded to old ways, public opinion and the 
ministers are powerful influences, while fathers and 
mothers are revered and obeyed as in few other places in 
this modern world. Courting lasts never later than ten 
at night, and no girl walks out with her young man 
without her parents' knowledge and consent. 

The young men go down to the sea and sow their wild 
oats in the wicked ports, returning periodically, between 
voyages, to live the old intensive morality, to court till 
ten o'clock, to sit under the minister each Sunday, and 
to listen at home to the same stern precepts that the elders 

[366] 



SAMUEL 



preached to them from the time they were laddies. Much 
they learned of women in the ends of the earth, these 
seafaring sons, yet a canny wisdom was theirs and they 
never brought wives home with them. The one solitary 
exception to this had been the schoolmaster, who had 
been guilty of bringing a wife from half a mile the 
other side of the loch. For this he had never been for- 
given, and he rested under a cloud for the remainder of 
his days. At his death the wife went back across the 
loch to her own people, and the blot on the escutcheon of 
Island McGill was erased. In the end the sailor-men 
married girls of their own homeland and settled down 
to become exemplars of all the virtues for which the 
island was noted. 

Island McGill was without a history. She boasted none 
of the events that go to make history. There had never 
been any wearing of the green, any Fenian conspiracies, 
any land disturbances. There had been but one eviction, 
and that purely technical — a test case, and on advice of 
the tenant's lawyer. So Island McGill was without 
annals. History had passed her by. She paid her taxes, 
acknowledged her crowned rulers, and left the world 
alone; all she asked in return was that the world leave 
her alone. The world was composed of two parts — 
Island McGill and the rest of it. And whatever was 
not Island McGill was outlandish and barbarian; and 
well she knew, for did not her seafaring sons bring home 
reports of that world and its ungodly ways? 



It was from the skipper of a Glasgow tramp, as pas- 
senger from Colombo to Rangoon, that I had first learned 
of the existence of Island McGill ; and it was from him 

[367] 



THE SHORT STORY 



that I had carried the letter that gave me entrance to 
the house of Mrs. Ross, widow of a master mariner, 
with a daughter living with her and with two sons, master 
mariners themselves and out upon the sea. Mrs. Eoss 
did not take in hoarders, and it was Captain Boss's 
letter alone that had enabled me to get from her, bed and ? 
board. In the evening after my encounter with Margaret | 
Henan, I questioned Mrs. Eoss, and I knew on the instant \ 
that I had in truth stumbled upon mystery. 

Like all Island McGill folk, as I was soon to discover, - 
Mrs. Eoss was at first averse to discussing Margaret 
Henan at all. Yet it was from her I learned that evening 
that Margaret Henan had once been one of the island - 
belles. Herself the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, she - 
had married Thomas Henan, equally well-to-do. Beyond J 
the usual housewife's tasks she had never been accus- 
tomed to work. Unlike many of the island women, she 
had never lent a hand in the fields. 

' ' But what of her children ? " I asked. 

1 ' Two o ' the sons, Jamie an ' Tumothy uz married an ' 
be goun' tull sea. Thot bug house close tull the post 
office uz Jamie's. The daughters thot ha 'no married be 
luvun ' wuth them as dud marry. An ' the rest be dead. ' ' 

" The Samuels," Clara interpolated, with what I 
suspected was a giggle. 

She was Mrs. Boss's daughter, a strapping young 
woman with handsome features and remarkably hand- 
some black eyes. 

" 'Tuz naught tull be snuckerun' ot," her mother re- 
proved her. 

" The Samuels? " I intervened. " I don't under- 
stand. ' ' 

[368] 



SAMUEL 



1 ' Her four sons thot died. ' ' 

' ' And were they all named Samuel ? ' ' 

"Ay." 

" Strange," I commented in the lagging silence. 

" Very strange," Mrs. Ross affirmed, proceeding 
stolidly with the knitting of the woolen singlet on her 
knees — one of the countless undergarments that she 
i interminably knitted for her skipper sons. 

' ' And it was only the Samuels that died ? " I queried, 
i in further attempt. 

• ' The others luv 'd, ' ' was the answer. 

1 ' A fine f omuly — no finer on the island. No better 
; lods ever sailed out of Island McGill. The munuster 
held them up oz models tull pottern after. Nor was 
ever a whusper breathed again' the girls." 

" But why is she left alone now in her old age? " I 
persisted, '■ Why don't her own flesh and blood look 
after her? Why does she live alone? Don't they ever 
go to see her or care for her ? ' ' 

" Never a one un twunty years an' more now. She 
fetch 't ut ontull herself. She drove them from the house 
just oz she drove old Tom Henan, thot was her husband, 
tull hus death." 

" Drink? " I ventured. 

Mrs. Ross shook her head scornfully, as if drink was a 
weakness beneath the weakest of Island McGill. 

A long pause followed, during which Mrs. Ross knitted 
stolidly on, only nodding permission when Clara's 
young man, mate on one of the Shire Line sailing ships, 
came to walk out with her. I studied the half-dozen 
| ostrich eggs, hanging in the corner against the wall like 
a cluster of some monstrous fruit. On each shell was 

[369] 



THE SHORT STORY 



painted precipitous and impossible seas through which ' 
full-rigged ships foamed with a lack of perspective only L 
equaled by their sharp technical perfection. On the | 
mantelpiece stood two large pearl shells, obviously a pair, 
intricately carved by the patient hands of New Caledon- l 
ian convicts. In the center of the mantel was a stuffed I 
bird of paradise, while about the room were scattered [ 
gorgeous shells from the Southern seas, delicate sprays 
of coral sprouting from barnacled pi-pi shells and cased 
in glass, assegais from South Africa, stone-axes from 
New Guinea, huge Alaskan tobacco-pouches beaded with 
heraldic totem designs, a boomerang from Australia, 
divers ships in glass bottles, a cannibal kai-kai bowl 
from the Marquesas, and fragile cabinets from China 
and the Indies, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and precious 
woods. 

I gazed at this varied trove brought home by sailor ■ 
sons, and pondered the mystery of Margaret Henan who . 
had driven her husband to his death and been forsaken 
by all her kin. It was not the drink. Then what was 
it? — some shocking cruelty? some amazing infidelity? 
or some fearful, old-world peasant crime ? 

I broached my theories, but to all Mrs. Ross shook her 
head. 

" Ut was no thot," she said. " Margaret was a guid 
wife an' a guid mother, an' I doubt she would harm a 
fly. She brought up her fomuly God-fearun' an' decent- 
minded. Her trouble was thot she took lunatuc — turned 
eediot. ' ' 

Mrs. Ross tapped significantly on her forehead to indi- [ 
cate a state of addlement. 

" But I talked with her this afternoon," I objected, 

[370] 



j SAMUEL 



" and I found- her a sensible woman — remarkably 
bright for one of her years. ' ' 

" Ay, an' I'm grantun' all thot you say," she went on 
calmly. " But I am no referrun' tull thot. I am 
referrun' tull her wucked-headed an' vucious stubborn- 
ness. No more stubborn woman ever luv 'd than Margaret 
Henan. Ut was all on account o' Samuel, which was the 
name o' her eldest an' they do say her favorut brother 
— hum oz died by hus own hond all through the munus- 
ter's mustake un' no registerun' the new church ot 
Dublin. Ut was a lesson thot the name was musfort- 
unate, but she would no take ut, an ' there was talk when 
she called her first child Samuel — hum thot died o' 
the croup. An' wuth thot what does she do but call the 
next one Samuel, an' hum only three when he fell un 
tull the tub o' hot watter an' was plain cooked tull death. 
Ut all come, I tell you, o ' her wucked-headed an ' f oolush 
stubbornness. For a Samuel she must huv, an' ut was 
the death of the four of her sons. After the first, dudna 
her own mother go down un the dirt tull her feet, 
a-beggun' an' pleadun' wuth her no tull name her next 
one Samuel? But she was no tull be turned from her 
purpose. Margaret Henan was always set un her ways, 
an' never more so thon on thot name Samuel. 

" She was fair lunatuc on Samuel. Dudna her neigh- 
bors, an' all kuth an' kun savun' them thot luv'd un 
the house wuth her, get up an' walk out ot the christen- 
un' of the second — 'hum thot was cooked? Thot they 
dud, an' ot the very moment the munuster asked what 
would the bairn's name be. ' Samuel/ says she; an' 
wuth thot they got up an' walked out an' left the house. 
An' ot the door dudna her Aunt Fanny, her mother's 

[371] 



THE SHORT STORY 






suster, turn an' say loud for all tull hear: ' What for 
wull she be wantun' tull murder the wee thung? ' The 
munuster heard fine, and dudna like ut, but oz he told 
my Larry afterward, what could he do? Ut was the 
woman's wush, an' there was no law again' a mother 
callun' her child accordun' tull her wush. 

" And then was there no' the third Samuel? An' •: 
when he was lost ot sea off the Cape, dudna she break 
all laws o* nature tull have a fourth? She was forty- 
seven I'm tullun ye, an' she hod a child ot forty-seven. 
Thunk on ut ! At forty-seven ! Ut was fair scand'lous. : 



J 5 



From Clara, next morning, I got the tale of Margaret 
Henan's favorite brother; and from here and there, in 
the week that followed, I pieced together the tragedy 
of Margaret Henan. Samuel Dundee had been the 
youngest of Margaret 's four brothers, and, as Clara told 
me, she had well-nigh worshiped him. He was going to 
sea at the time, the skipper of one of the sailing ships 
of the Bank Line, when he married Agnes Hewitt. She 
was described as a slender wisp of a girl, delicately 
featured and with a nervous organization of the super- 
sensitive order. Theirs had been the first marriage in the : 
" new " church, and after a two weeks' honeymoon 
Samuel had kissed his bride good-by and sailed in com- 
mand of the Loughbank, a big four-masted bark. 

And it was because of the " new " church that the 
minister's blunder occurred. Nor was it the blunder of 
the minister alone, as one of the elders later explained ; 
for it was equally the blunder of the whole Presbytery 
of Coughleen, which included fifteen churches on Island 
McGill and the mainland. The old church, beyond 

[372] 



SAMUEL 



repair, had been torn down and the new one built on 
the original foundation. Looking upon the foundation 
stones as similar to a ship's keel, it never entered the 
minister 's nor the Presbytery 's head that the new church 
I was legally any other than the old church. 

11 An' three couples was married the first week un the 
new church, ' ' Clara said. * ' First of all, Samuel Dundee 
an' Agnes Hewitt; the next day Albert Mahan an' 
Minnie Duncan ; an' by the week-end Eddie Troy an' Flo 
I Mackintosh — all sailor men, an ' un sux weeks ' time 
the last of them back tull their shups an' awa', an' no 
one o' them dreamun' of the wuckedness they'd been 
ot." 

The Imp of the Perverse must have chuckled at the 
situation. All things favored. The marriages had taken 
place in the first week of May, and it was not till three 
months later that the minister, as required by law, made 
his quarterly report to the civil authorities in Dublin. 
Promptly came back the announcement that his church 
had no legal existence, not being registered according to 
the law 's demands. This was overcome by prompt regis- 
tration; but the marriages were not to be so easily 
remedied. The three sailor husbands were away, and 
their wives, in short, were not their wives. 

" But the munuster was no for alarmun' the bodies," 

said Clara. " He kept hus council an' bided hus time, 

waitun' for the lods tull be back from sea. Oz luck 

would have ut, he was away across the island tull a 

christenun' when Albert Mahan arrives home onexpected, 

| hus shup just docked ot Dublin. Ut's nine o'clock ot 

j night when the munuster, un hus sluppers an' dressun' 

! gown, gets the news. Up he jumps an' calls for horse 

[373] 



THE SHORT STORY 



an' saddle, an' awa' goes like the wund for Albert 
Mahan 's. Albert uz just goun' tull bed an' hoz one 
shoe off when the munuster arrives. 

" ' Come wuth me, the pair o'ye,' says he, breathless 
like. ' What for, an' me dead weary an' goun' tull 
bed? ' says Albert. ' Tull be lawful married,' says the 
munuster. Albert looks black an' says, 'Now, munuster, 
ye wull be jokin'.' But tull himself, oz I've heard hum 
tell mony a time, he was wonderun ' thot the munuster i 
should a-took tull whusky ot hus time o ' life. 

" * We be no married? ' says Minnie. He shook hus 
head. ' An' I om no Mussus Mahan? ' ' No,' says he, 
1 ye are no Mussus Mahan. Ye are plain Muss Duncan. ! 
' But ye married us yoursel',' says she. * I dud an' I 
dudna ', ' says he. An ' wuth thot he tells them the whole 
upshot, an' Albert puts on hus shoe, an' they go wuth 
the munuster an' are married proper an' lawful, an' oz 
Albert Mahan says afterward mony's the time, ' 'Tus no 
every mon thot hos two weddun' nights on Island 
McGill.'" 

Six months later, Eddie Troy came home and was 
promptly remarried. But Samuel Dundee was away on 
a three year 's voyage and his ship fell overdue. Further 
to complicate the situation, a baby boy, past two years 
old, was waiting for him in the arms of his wife. The 
months passed, and the wife grew thin with worrying. 
" Ut's no meself I'm thinkun' on," she is reported to 
have said many times, " but ut's the puir fatherless 
bairn. Uf aught hoppened tull Samuel where wull the 
bairn stond? " 

Lloyds posted the Loughbank as missing, and the 
owners ceased the monthly remittance of Samuel's half- 

[374] 



SAMUEL 



pay to his wife. It was the question of the child 's legiti- 
macy that prayed on her mind, and when all hope of 
Samuel 's return was abandoned, she drowned herself and 
the child in the loch. And here enters the greater 
tragedy. The Loughbank was not lost. By a series of 
sea disasters and delays too interminable to relate, she 
had made one of those long, unsighted passages such as 
occur once or twice in half a century. How the Imp 
must have held both his sides ! Back from the sea came 
Samuel, and when they broke the news to him something 
else broke somewhere in his heart or head. Next morn- 
ing they found him where he had tried to kill himself 
across the grave of his wife and child. Never in the 
history of Island McGrill was there so fearful a death- 
bed. He spat in the minister's face and reviled him, and 
died blaspheming so terribly that those that tended on 
him did so with averted gaze and trembling hands. 

And in the face of all this, Margaret Henan named 
her first child Samuel. 

How account for the woman's stubbornness? Or was 
it a morbid obsession that demanded a child of hers 
should be named Samuel? Her third child was a girl, 
named after herself, and the fourth was a boy again. 
Despite the strokes of fate that had already bereft her, 
and despite the loss of friends and relatives, she persisted 
in her resolve to name the child after her brother. She 
was shunned at church by those who had grown up 
with her. Her mother, after a final appeal, left her 
house with the warning that if the child were so named 
she would never speak to her again. And though the 
old lady lived thirty odd years longer, she kept her word. 

[375] 



THE SHORT STORY 



The minister agreed to christen the child any name but 
Samuel, and every other minister on Island McGill 
refused to christen it by the name she had chosen. There 
was talk on the part of Margaret Henan of going to law 
at the time, but in the end she carried the child to Belfast 
and there had it christened Samuel. 

And then nothing happened. The whole Island was 
confuted. The boy grew and prospered. The school- 
master never ceased averring that it was the brightest lad 
he had ever seen. Samuel had a splendid constitution, 
a tremendous grip on life. To everybody's amazement 
he escaped the usual run of childish afflictions. Measles, 
whooping-cough and mumps knew him not. He was 
armor clad against germs, immune to all diseases. Head- 
aches and earaches were things unknown. " Never so 
much oz a boil or a pumple," as one of the old bodies 
told me, ever marred his healthy skin. He broke school 
records in scholarship and athletics, and whipped every 
boy of his size or years on Island McGill. 

It was a triumph for Margaret Henan. This paragon 
was hers, and it bore the cherished name. With the one 
exception of her mother, friends and relatives drifted 
back and acknowledged that they had been mistaken; 
though there were old crones who still abided by their 
opinions and who shook their heads ominously over their 
cups of tea. The boy was too wonderful to last. There 
was no escaping the curse of the name his mother had 
wickedly laid upon him. The young generation joined 
Margaret Henan in laughing at them, but the old crones 
continued to shake their heads. 

Other children followed. Margaret Henan 's fifth was 
a boy, whom she called Jamie, and in rapid succession 

[376] 



SAMUEL 



followed three girls, Alice, Sara, and Nora, the boy 
Timothy, and two more girls, Florence and Katie. Katie 
was the last and eleventh and Margaret Henan, at thirty- 
five, ceased from her exertions. She had done well by 
Island McGrill and the Queen. Nine healthy children 
were hers. All prospered. It seemed her ill luck had 
shot its bolt with the deaths of her first two. Nine lived, 
and one of them was named Samuel. 

Jamie elected to follow the sea, though it was not so 
much a matter of election as compulsion, for the eldest 
sons on Island McGill remained on the land while all 
the other sons went to the salt ploughing. Timothy fol- 
lowed Jamie, and by the time the latter had got his first 
command, a steamer in the Bay trade out of Cardiff, 
Timothy was mate of a big sailing ship. Samuel, how- 
ever, did not take kindly to the soil. The farmer's life 
had no attraction for him. His brothers went to sea, 
not out of desire, but because it was the only way for 
them to gain their bread; and he who had no need to 
go envied them when, returned from far voyages, they 
sat by the kitchen fire and told their bold tales of the 
wonder lands beyond the sea rim. 

Samuel became a teacher, much to his father 's disgust, 
and even took extra certificates, going to Belfast for his 
examinations. When the old master retired, Samuel took 
over his school. Secretly, however, he studied naviga- 
tion, and it was Margaret's delight when he sat by the 
kitchen fire, and, despite their master's tickets, tangled 
up his brothers in the theoretics of their profession. Tom 
Henan alone was outraged when Samuel, school-teacher, 
gentleman, and heir to the Henan farm, shipped to sea 
before the mast. Margaret had an abiding faith in her 

[ 377 ] 



THE SHORT STORY 



son's star, and whatever he did she was sure was for 
the best. Like everything else connected with his glorious 
personality, there had never been known so swift a rise 
as in the case of Samuel. Barely with two years' sea 
experience before the mast, he was taken from the fore- 
castle and made a provisional second mate. This occur- 
red in a fever port on the West Coast, and the committee 
of skippers that examined him agreed that he knew more 
of the science of navigation than they had remembered 
or forgotten. Two years later he sailed from Liverpool, 
mate of the Starry Grace, with both master's and extra 
master 's tickets in his possession. And then it happened 
— the thing the old crones had been shaking their heads 
over for years. 

It was told me by Gavin McNab, bosun of the Starry 
Grace at the time, himself an Island McGill man. 

11 Wull do I remember ut, " he said. " We was run- 
nun ' our Eastun' down, an' makun' heavy weather of ut. 
Oz fine a sailor-mon oz ever walked was Samuel Henan. 
I remember the look of hum wull that last marnun', 
a-watchun' them bug seas curlun' up astern, an' a-watch- 
un' the old girl an seeun' how she took them — the 
skupper down below an' drunkun' for days. Ut was ot 
seven thot Henan brought her up on tull the wund, not 
darun' tull run longer un thot fearful sea. Ot eight, 
after havun' breakfast, he turns un, an' a half hour 
after up comes the skupper, bleary-eyed an' shaky an' 
holdun' on tull the componion. Ut was fair smokun', 
I om teHon' ye, and there he stood, blunkun' an' noddun' 
an' talkun' tull humsel'. ' Keep off,' says he ot last to 
the mon ot the wheel. ' My God ! ' says the second mate, 

[378] 



SAMUEL 



standun ' beside hum. The skupper never looks tull hum 
ot all, but keeps on mutterun' an' jabberun' tull humsel'. 
All of a suddent-like he straightuns up an' throws hus 
head back, an* says: ' Put your wheel over, me mon — 
now, domn ye! Are ye deef thot ye '11 no be hearun' 
me! ' 

" Ut was a drunkun mon's luck, for the Starry Grace 
wore off afore that God- Almighty gale wuthout shuppun' 
a bucket o' watter, the second mate shoutun' orders an' 
the crew jumpin' like mod. An' wuth thot the skupper 
nods contented-like tull humsel' an' goes below after 
more whuskey. Ut was plain murder o' the lives o' all 
of us, for ut was no the time for the buggest shup afloat 
tull be runnun'. Run? Never hov I seen the like! Ut 
was beyond all thunkun', an* me goun' tull sea, boy an' 
mon, for forty year. I tell you ut was fair awesome. 

" The face o' the second mate was white oz death, an' 
he stood ut alone for half an hour, when ut was too 
much for hum an' he went below an' called Samuel an' 
the third. Ay, a fine sailor-mon thot Samuel, but ut 
was too much for hum. He looked an' studied, an' 
looked an' studied, but he could no see hus way. He 
durst na heave tull. She would ha' been sweeput o' all 
honds an' stucks an' everythung afore she could a-fetcht 
up. There was nought tull do but keep on runnun '. An ' 
uf ut worsened we were lost onyway, for soon or late 
that overtakun' sea was sure tull sweep us clear over 
poop an' all. 

" Dud I say it was a God- Almighty gale? Ut was 
worse nor thot. The Devil himself must ha' hod a hond 
un the brewun' o' ut, ut was thot fearsome. I ha' looked 
on some sights, but I om no carun' tull look on the like 

[379] 



THE SHORT STORY 



o' thot again. No mon dared tull be un hus bunk. No, 
nor no mon on the decks. All honds of us stood on top 
the house an' held on an' watched. The three mates 
was on the poop, wuth two men ot the wheel, an' the only 
mon below was thot whuskey-blighted captain snorun' 
drunk. 

" An' then I see ut comun', a mile away, risun' above 
all the waves like an island un the sea — the buggest 
wave ever I looked upon. The three mates stood tulgether 
an' watched ut comun', a-prayun' like we thot she would 
no break un passun' us. But ut was no tull be. Ot the 
last, when she rose up like a mountain, curlun' above 
the stern an ' blottun ' out the sky, the mates scottered, the 
second an' third runnun' for the mizzen-shrouds an' 
climbun' up, but the first runnun' tull the wheel tull 
lend a hond. He was a grave mon, thot Samuel Henan. 
He run straight un tull the face o' thot father o' all 
waves, no thunkun ' on humsel ' but thunkun ' only o ' the 
ship. The two men was lashed tull the wheel, but he 
would be ready tull hond un the case they was kult. 
An ' then she took ut. "We on the house could no see the 
poop for the thousand tons of watter that had hut ut. 
Thot wave cleaned them out, took everything along wuth 
ut — the two mates climbun' up the mizzun-riggun ', 
Samuel Henan runnun' tull the wheel, the two men ot 
the wheel, ay, an' the wheel utself. We never saw aught 
o' them, for she broached tull what o' the wheel goun', 
an' two men o' us was drowned off the house, no tull 
mention the carpenter thot we picked up ot the break o ' 
the poop wuth every bone o' hus body broke tull he was 
like so much jelly. ' ' 

And here enters the marvel of it, the miraculous 

[380] 



SAMUEL 



wonder of that woman's heroic spirit. Margaret Henan 
was forty-seven when the news came home of the loss 
of Samuel ; and it was not long after that the unbeliev- 
able rumor went around Island McGill. I say unbeliev- 
able. Island McGill would not believe. Dr. Hall 
pooh-pooh 'd it. Everybody laughed at it as a good joke. 
They traced back the gossip to Sara Dack, servant to the 
Henans', and who alone lived with Margaret and her 
husband. But Sara Dack persisted in her assertion 
and was called a low-mouthed liar. One or two dared 
question Tom Henan himself, but beyond black looks 
and curses for their presumption they elicited nothing 
from him. 

The rumor died down, and the island fell to discussing 
in all its ramifications the loss of the Grenoble in the 
China Seas, with all her officers and half her crew born 
and married on Island McGill. But the rumor would 
not stay down. Sara Dack was louder in her assertions, 
the looks Tom Henan cast about him were blacker than 
ever, and Dr. Hall, after a visit to the Henan house, no 
longer pooh-pooh 'd. Then Island McGill sat up, and 
there was a tremendous wagging of tongues. It was 
unnatural and ungodly. The like had never been heard. 
And when, as time passed, the truth of Sara Dack's 
utterances was manifest, the island folk decided, like the 
bosun of the Starry Grace, that only the Devil could 
have had a hand in so untoward a happening. And the 
infatuated woman, so Sara Dack reported, insisted that 
it would be a boy. " Eleven bairns ha' I borne/ ' she 
said ; " sux o f them lassies and five o f them loddies. An* 
sunce there be balance un all thungs, so wull there be 
balance wuth me. Sux o' one an' half a dozen o' the 

[381] 



THE SHORT STORY 



other — there uz the balance, an ' oz sure oz the sun rises 
un' the marnun', thot sure wull ut be a boy." 

And boy it was, and a prodigy. Doctor Hall raved 
about its unblemished perfection and massive strength, 
and wrote a brochure on it for the Dublin Medical So- 
ciety as the most interesting case of the sort in his long 
career. 

When Sara Dack gave the babe's unbelievable weight, 
Island McGill refused to believe and once again called 
her liar. But when Dr. Hall attested that he had him- 
self weighed it and seen it tip that very notch, Island 
McGill held its breath and accepted whatever report 
Sara Dack made of the infant's progress or appetite. 
And once again Margaret Henan carried a babe to Belfast 
and had it christened Samuel. 

1 ' Oz good oz gold it was, ' ' said Sara Dack to me. 

Sara, at the time I met her, was a buxom, phlegmatic 
spinster of sixty, equipped with an experience so tragic 
and unusual that though her tongue ran on for decades 
its output would still be of imperishable interest to her 
cronies. 

" Oz good as gold," said Sara Dack. " Ut never 
fretted. Sut ut down un the sun by the hour an' never 
a sound ut would make oz long oz ut was no hungered. 
An' thot strong! The grup o' uts honds was like a 
mon's. I mind me when ut was but hours' old, ut 
grupped me so mighty thot I fetcht a scream I was thot 
frightened. Ut was the punk o' health. Ut slept an' 
ate, an' grew. Ut never bothered. Never a night's sleep 
ut lost tull no one, nor even a munut's, an' thot wuth 
cuttun' uts teeth an' all. An' Margaret would dandle 

[3S2] 



SAMUEL 



ut on her knee an' ask was there ever so fine a loddie un 
the three kingdoms. 

' ' The way ut grew ! Ut was un keepun ' wuth the way 
ut ate. Ot a year ut was the size o' a bairn of two. Ut 
was slow tull walk an' talk. Exceptun' for gurgly noises 
un uts throat an' for creep un' on all-fours, ut dudna 
monage much un the walkun' an' talkun' line. But 
thot was tull be expected from the way ut grew. Ut all 
went tull growun' strong an' healthy. An' even old Tom 

i Henan cheered up ot the might of ut an' said was there 
ever the like o' ut un the three kungdoms. Ut was 
Doctor Hall thot first suspicioned, I mind me well, though 

I ut was luttle I dreamt what he was up tull ot the time. 
I see hum holdun' thungs un front o' luttle Sammy's 
eyes, an' a-makun' noises, loud an' soft, an' far an' near, 
un' little Sammy's ears. An' then I see Doctor Hall go 
away, wrunklun' hus eyebrows an' shakun' hus head like 
the bairn was ailun'. But he was no ailun', oz I could 
swear tull, me a-seeun' hum eat an' grow. But Doctor 
Hall no said a word tull Margaret, an' I was no for 
guessun' the why he was sore puzzled. 

" I mind me when luttle Sammy first spoke. He was 
two years old an' the size of a child o' five, though he 
could no monage the walkun' yet but went around on 
all-fours, happy an* contented-like an' makun' no trouble 
oz long oz he was fed promptly, whuch was onusual often. 
I was hangun ' the wash on the line ot the time, when out 
he comes on all-fours, hus bug head waggun' tull an' fro 
an' blunkun' un the sun. An' then, suddent, he talked. 
I was thot took a-back I near died o' fright, an' fine I 
knew ut then the shakun ' o ' Doctor Hall 's head. Talked ? 
Never a bairn on Island McGill talked so loud an' tull 

[383] 



THE SHORT STORY 



such purpose. There was no mistakun ' ut. I stood there 
all tremblun' an' shakun'. Luttle Sammy was brayun'. 
I tell you, sir, he was brayun' like an ass — just like thot, 
loud an' long an' cheerful tull ut seemed hus lungs ud 
crack. 

" He was a eediot — a great, awful, monster eediot. 
Ut was after he talked thot Doctor Hall told Margaret, 
but she would no believe. Ut would all come right, she 
said. Ut was growun' too fast for aught else. Give ut 
time, said she, an' we would see. But old Tom Henan 
knew an' he never held up hus head again. He could no 
abide the thung, an' would no brung humsel' tull touch 
ut, though I am no denyun ' he was fair fascinated by ut. 
Mony the time I see hum watchun ' of ut around a corner, 
lookun' ot ut tull hus eyes fair bulged wuth the horror; 
an* when ut brayed, old Tom ud stuch hus fungers tull 
hus ears an' look thot miserable I could a-puttied hum. 

' ' An ' bray ut could ! Ut was the only thung ut could 
do beside eat an' grow. "Whenever ut was hungry ut 
brayed, an' there was no stoppun' ut save wuth food. 
An' always of a marnun', when first ut crawled tull the 
kutchen-door an' blunked out ot the sun, ut brayed. An' 
ut was brayun ' thot brought about uts end. 

' ' I mind me well. Ut was three years old and ez bug 
oz a lod o' ten. Old Tom hod been goun' from bod tull 
worse, ploughun' up an' down the fields an' talkun' an' 
mutturun' tull humself. On the marnun' o' the day I 
mind me, he was suttun' on the bench outside the 
kutchun' a-futtun' a handle tull a puck-axe. Unbe- 
known, the monster eediot crawled tull the door and 
brayed after hus fashion ot the sun. I see old Tom start 
up an' look. An' there was the monster eediot waggun* 

[384] 



SAMUEL 



uts bug head an' blunkun' an' brayun' like the great 
bug ass ut was. Ut was too much for Tom. Somethun , 
went wrong with hum suddent-like. He jumped tull his 
feet an' fetched the puck-handle down on the monster 
eediot's head. An' he hut ut again an' again like ut 
was a mad dog an' hum af eared o' ut. An' he went 
straight tull the stable an' hung humsel' tull a rafter. 
An' I was no for stoppun' on after such-like, an' I went 
tull stay along wuth me suster thot was married tull 
John Martin an ' comfortable off. ' ' 

I sat on the bench by the kitchen door and regarded 
Margaret Henan, while with her callous thumb she 
pressed down the live fire of her pipe and gazed out 
across the twilight-sombered fields. It was the very 
bench Tom Henan sat upon that last sanguinary day of 
life. And Margaret sat in the doorway where the mon- 
ster, blinking at the sun, had so often wagged its head 
and brayed. We had been talking for an hour, she with 
that slow certitude of eternity that so befitted her; and 
for the life of me I could lay no finger on the motives 
that ran through the tangled warp and woof of her. 
Was she a martyr to Truth ? Did she have it in her to 
worship at so abstract a shrine? Had she conceived 
Abstract Truth to be the one high goal of human endea- 
vor on that day of long ago when she named her first- 
born Samuel? Or was hers the stubborn obstinacy of 
the ox? the fixity of purpose of the balky horse? the 
stolidity of the self-willed peasant-mind? Was it whim 
or fancy ? — the one-streak of lunacy in what was other- 
wise an eminently rational mind? Or, reverting, was 
hers the spirit of a Bruno? Was she convinced of the 

[385] 



THE SHORT STORY 



intellectual Tightness of the stand she had taken? "Was » 
hers a steady, enlightened opposition to superstition? - 
or — and a subtler thought — was she mastered by some 
vaster, profounder superstition, fetish-worship of which ] 
the Alpha and Omega was the cryptic Samuel? 

" "Wull ye be tellun' me," she said, " thot uf the 
second Samuel hod been named Larry, thot he would no 
hov fell un the hot watter and drowned? Atween you 
an' me, sir, an' ye are untellugent-lookun , tull the eye, ] 
would the name hov made ut onyways dufferunt ? "Would 
the washun' no be done thot day uf he had been Larry I 
or Michael? Would hot watter no be hot, an* would hot < 
watter no burn, uf he hod hod ony other name but ; 
Samuel? " 

I acknowledged the justness of her contention, and she • 
went on. \ 

"Doa wee but of a name change the plans o' God? ; 
Do the world run by hut or muss, an' be God a weak, 
shully-shallyun' creature that ud alter the fate an' 
destiny o' thungs because the worm Margaret Henan 
seen f ut tull name her bairn Samuel ? There be my son 
Jamie. He wull no sign a Rooshan-Funn un hus crew 
because o' believun' thot Rooshan-Funns do be monajun , 
the wunds an' hov the makun' o' bod weather. "Wull 
you be thunkun' so? "Wull you be thunkun' thot God 
thot makes the wunds tull blow wull bend hus head from 
on high tull lusten tull the word o' a greasy Rooshan- 
Funn un some dirty shup's fo'c'sle? " 

I said no, certainly not; but she was not to be set 
aside from pressing home the point of her argument. 

II Then wull you be thunkun* thot God thot directs 
the stars un their courses an ' tull whose mighty foot the 

[386] 



SAMUEL 



world uz but a footstool, wull you be thunkun' thot he 
wull take a spite again' Margaret Henan an' send a bug 
wave off the Cape tull wash her son un tull eternity, all 
because she was for namun' hum Samuel? " 

" But why Samuel? " I asked. 

1 1 And thot I dinna know. I wanted ut so. ' ' 

" But why did you want it so? " 

" An' uz ut me thot would be answerun' a such-like 
question? Be there ony mon luvun' or dead thot can 
answer? Who can tell the why o' like? My Jamie was 
fair daft on buttermulk; he would drink ut tull, oz he 
said humself, hus back-teeth was awash. But my Tum- 
othy could no abide buttermulk. I like tull lussen tull 
the thunder growlun' an* roarun', an rampajun'. My 
Katie could no abide the noise of ut, but must scream 
an ' flutter an ' go runnun ' for the mudmost o ' a feather- 
bed. Never yet hov I heard the answer tull the why o' 
like. God alone hoz thot answer. You an' me be mortal 
an' we canna know. Enough for us tull know what we 
like an ' what we duslike. I like — thot uz the first word 
an' the last. And behind thot like no mon can go and 
find the why o' ut. I like Samuel, an' I like ut wull. 
Ut uz a sweet name, an' there be a rollun' wonder un 
the sound o ' ut thot passes onderstondun '. ' ' 

The twilight deepened, and in the silence I gazed 
upon that splendid dome of a forehead which time could 
not mar, at the width between the eyes, and at the 
eyes themselves, clear, out-looking, and wide-seeing. 
She rose to her feet with an air of dismissing me, 
saying : 

" Ut wull be a dark walk home, an' there wull be more 
thon a sprunkle o' wet on the sky." 

[387] 



THE SHORT STORY 



11 Have you any regrets, Margaret Henan? " I asked 
suddenly and without forethought. 

She studied me a moment. 

" Ay, thot I no ha' borne another son." 

1 ' And you would . . . ?" I faltered. 

" Ay, thot I would," she answered. " Ut would ha' 
been hus name. ' ' 

I went down the dark road between the hawthorne 
hedges, puzzling over the why of like, repeating Samuel 
to myself and aloud and listening to the rolling wonder 
in its sound that had charmed her soul and led her life 
in tragic places. Samuel! There was a rolling won- 
der in the sound of it. Ay, there was ! 



[388] 



THE PRINCESS AND THE VAGABONE * 
By Ruth Sawyer 

Ruth Sawyer Durand is an American writer who has re- 
cently succeeded in doing in a very delightful way in short 
story fiction what the Irish dramatists have done in comedy 
and tragedy. Other of Mrs. Durand's stories may be found in 
j The Outlook for 1911 and 1912. 

If you would hear a tale in Ireland, you must first 
tell one. So it happened, as we sat in the Hegartys' 
cabin on a late fall night after a cross-roads dance, that 
I, the stranger, found myself beginning the story-telling. 
The cabin was overflowing with neighbors from the hills 
about: girls and lads stretched tired-limbed beside the 
hearth, elders sitting in an outer circle. The men 
smoked, the women were busy with their knitting, and 
the old gray piper — hidden in the shadow of the chim- 
ney-corner — sat with his pipes across his knees, fingering 
the stops with tenderness as unconsciously as a parent's 
hand goes out to stroke a much-loved child. From 
between the curtains of the outshot bed peered the 
children, sleepless-eyed and laughing. The kettle hung, 
freshly filled, over the fire; the empty griddle stood 
beside it, ready for a late baking, for there would be tea 
and currant-bread at the end of the evening. 

I remember I told the legend of the Catskills, dwelling 
long on Rip 's shrewish wife and the fame of her sharp 

* Copyrighted. Reprinted from The Outlook, September 9, 
1911, by permission of the editors and the author. 

[389] 



THE SHORT STORY 



tongue. They liked the story; I knew well that they 
would, for the supernatural lies close to the Irish heart ; 
and before ever it was finished Michael Hegarty was 
knocking the ashes from his pipe that he might be ready 
with the next tale. 

" That's grand," he said at the conclusion. " Do ye 
know, ye 've given me a great consolation ? I was af ther 
thinkin' that Ireland had the exclusive rights to all the 
sharp-tongued, pestherin' wives," and he shook his head 
teasingly at the wife who sat across the firelight from 
him. 

" Did ye, now? " she answered, her face drawn into 
an expression of mock solemnity. ' ' Sure, was it because 
ye knew we had the run o ' vagabone husbands ? ' ' 

The children gurgled with appreciative merriment, but 
Michael pulled me gently by the sleeve. 

1 « I have a tale — do ye know Willie Shakespeare ? ' ' 

I nodded, surprised at the question. 

" Well, ye may not be knowin' this: he was afther 
writin' a play a few hundthred years ago which he took 
sthraight out of a Connaught tale. Like as not he had 
it from an Irish nurse, or maybe he heard it from a 
rovin' tinker that came to his town." 

* ' Which play do you mean ? ' ' 

II Faith, I haven't the name by me handy, just, but 
your story put me in mind of it. I was readin ' it myself 
once, so it's the truth I am tellin' ye. He has it changed 
a wee bit — turned it an ' patched it an ' made it up in a 
sthrange fashion; but 'tis the same tale, for all o' that. 
Sure, did ye ever know an Englishman yet that would 
let on to anything he 'd took from an Irishman ? ' ' 

A joyful murmur greeted the last. 

[390] 



THE PRINCESS AND THE VAGABONE 

" Tell us the tale,'' I said. 

There was a long pause ; the burning turf sifted down 
into " faery gold " upon the hearth and the kettle com- 
menced to sing. Michael Hegarty smiled foolishly — 

"lam afther wishin' ye had the Gaelic so as I could 
tell it to ye right. Ye see, I'm not good at givin' a tale 
in English — I haven't the words, just "; and he fum- 
bled uneasily with his empty pipe. 

' ■ Ye can do it, ' ' said the wife, proudly. 

' * I can make the try, ' ' he answered, simply ; and then 
he added, regretfully, " But I wish ye had the Gaelic." 

Thus did Michael Hegarty begin the story of the Prin- 
cess and the Vagabone. I marveled at first that the 
poetry and beauty of language should come so readily 
yet so unconsciously to his lips ; and then I remembered 
that his people had once been the poets of the world, and 
men had come from far away to be taught by them. 

This is the tale as he told it that night by the hearth — 
save that the soft Donegal brogue is missing, and nowhere 
can you hear the rhythmic click of the knitters' needles 
or the singing of the kettle on the crook making accom- 
paniment. 

Once, in the olden time, when an Irish king sat in 
every province and plenty covered the land, so that fat 
wee pigs ran free on the highroad, crying, " Who'll eat 
us? " there lived in Connaught a grand old king with 
one daughter. She was as tall and slender as the reeds 
that grow by Loch Erne, and her face was the fairest in 
seven counties. This was more the pity, for the temper 
she had did not match it at all, at all ; it was the blackest 
and ugliest that ever fell to the birthlot of a princess. 

[391] 



THE SHORT STORY 



She was proud, she was haughty; her tongue had the 
length and the sharpness of the thorns on a sidheog bush ; 
and from the day she was born till long after she was a 
woman grown she was never heard to say a kind word 
or known to do a kind deed to a living creature. 

As each year passed, the King would think to himself, 
11 'Tis the New Year will see her better." But it was 
worse instead of better she grew, until one day the King 
found himself at the end of his patience, and he groaned 
aloud as he sat alone, drinking his poteen. 

" Faith, another man shall have her for the next 
eighteen years, for, by my soul, I 've had my fill of her ! ' ' 

So it came about, as I am telling ye, that the King sent 
word to the nobles of the neighboring provinces that 
whosoever would win the consent of his daughter in 
marriage should have the half of his kingdom and the 
whole of his blessing. On the day that she was eighteen 
they came: a wonderful procession of earls, dukes, 
princes, and kings, riding up to the castle gate, a-court- 
ing. The air was filled with the ring of the silver trap- 
pings on their horses, and the courtyard was gay with 
the colors of their bratas and the long cloaks they wore, 
riding. The King made each welcome according to his 
rank; and then he sent a serving-man to his daughter, 
bidding her come and choose her suitor, the time being 
ripe for her to marry. It was a courteous message that 
the King sent, but the Princess heard little of it. She 
flew into the hall on the heels of the serving-man, like a 
fowl hawk after a bantam cock. Her eyes burned with 
the anger that was hot in her heart, while she stamped 
her foot in the King's face until the rafters rang with 
the noise of it. 

[392] 



THE PRINCESS AND THE VAGABONE 



" So ye will be giving me away for the asking — to 
any one of these blithering fools who have a rag to their 
! backs or a castle to their names? " 

The King grew crimson at her words. He was ashamed 

that they should all hear how sharp was her tongue; 

j moreover, he was fearsome lest they should take to their 

heels and leave him with a shrew on his hands for 

another eighteen years. He was hard at work piecing 

together a speech made up of all the grand words he 

j knew, when the Princess strode past him on to the first 

I suitor in the line. 

" At any rate, 111 not be choosin' ye, ye long-legged 
corn-crake," and she gave him a sound kick as she went 
on to the next. He was a large man with a shaggy beard ; 
and, seeing how the first suitor had fared, he tried 
a wee bit of a smile on her while his hand went out 
I coaxingly. She saw, and the anger in her grew three- 
fold. 

She sprang at him, digging the two of her hands deep 
in his beard, and then she wagged his foolish head back 
and forth, screaming: 

" Take that, and that, and that, ye old whiskered 
rascal! " 

It was a miracle that any beard was left on his face 
the way that she pulled it. But she let him go free at 
last, and turned to a thin, sharp-faced prince with a 
monstrous long nose. The nose took her fancy, and she 
gave it a tweak, telling the prince to take himself home 
before he did any damage with it. The next one she 
called ' ' pudding-face ' ' and slapped his fat cheeks until 
they were purple, and the poor lad groaned with the 
sting of it. 

[ 393 ] 



THE SHORT STORY 



' 



1 ' Go back to your trough, for I '11 not marry a grunter, \ 
i ' faith, ' ' said she. 

She moved swiftly down the line in less time than it 
takes for the telling. It came to the mind of many of the 
suitors that they would be doing a wise thing if they . 
betook themselves off before their turn came ; so as many 
of them as were not fastened to the floor with fear started 
away. There happened to be a fat, crooked-legged prince 
from Leinster just making for the door when the Princess 
looked around. In a trice she reached out for the tongs 
that stood on the hearth near by, and she laid it across 
his shoulders, sending him spinning into the yard. 

1 ' Take that, ye old gander, and good riddance to ye ! " 
she cried after him. 

It was then that she saw looking at her a great towering 
giant of a man; and his eyes burned through hers, deep * 
down into her soul. So great was he that he could have 
picked her up with a single hand and thrown her after I 
the gander; and she knew it, and yet she felt no fear. 
He was as handsome as Nuada of the Silver Hand ; and 
not a mortal fault could she have found with him, not if 
she had tried for a hundred years. The two of them 
stood facing each other, glaring, as if each would spring 
at the other 's throat the next moment ; but all the while 
the Princess was thinking how wonderful he was, from 
the top of his curling black hair, down the seven feet of 
him, to the golden clasps on his shoes. What the man was 
thinking I cannot be telling. Like a breath of wind on 
smoldering turf, her liking for him set her anger fierce- 
burning again. She gave him a sound cuff of the ear; 
then turned, and with a sob in her throat she went fly- 
ing from the room, the serving-men scattering before her 

[394] 






THE PRINCESS AND THE VAGABONE 



I as if she had been a hundred million robbers on a raid. 

And the King? Faith, he was dumb with rage. But 

when he saw the blow that his daughter had given to the 

finest gentleman in all Ireland, he went after her as if 

he had been two hundred million constables on the trail 

| of the robbers. 

" Ye are a disgrace and a shame to me," said he, 
catching up with her and holding firmly to her two 
hands; " and, what's more, ye are a disgrace and a 
blemish to my castle and my kingdom ; 1 11 not keep ye in 
it a day longer. The first traveling vagabone who comes 
begging at the door shall have ye for his wife. ' ' 

11 Will he? " and the Princess tossed her head in the 
King 's face and went to her chamber. 

The next morning a poor singing sthromhuch came to 
the castle to sell a song for a penny or a morsel of bread. 
The song was sweet that he sang, and the Princess 
listened as Oona, the tirewoman, was winding strands of 
her long black hair with golden thread : 

The gay young wran sang over the moor. 

" I'll build me a nest," sang he. 

" 'Twill have a thatch and a wee latched door, 

For the wind blows cold from the sea. 

And I'll let no one but my true love in, 

For she is the mate for me," 

Sang the gay young wran. 

The wee brown wran by the hedgerow cried — 
"I'll wait for him here," cried she. 
" For the way is far and the world is wide, 
And he might miss the way to me. 
Long is the time when the heart is shut, 
But I'll open to none save he," 
Sang the wee brown wran. 
[395] 



THE SHORT STORY 



A strange throb came to the heart of the Princess when 
the song was done. She pulled her hair free from the 
hands of the tirewoman. 

11 Get silver,' ' she said; " I would throw it to him." 
And when she saw the wonderment grow in Oona 's face, 
she added: " The song pleased me. Can I not pay for 
what I like without having ye look at me as if ye feared 
my wits had flown ? Go, get the silver ! ' ' 

But when she pushed open the grating and leaned far 
out to throw it, the sthronshuch had gone. 

For the King had heard the song as well as the 
Princess. His rage was still with him, and when he 
saw who it was, he lost no time, but called him quickly 
inside. 

" Ye are as fine a vagabone as I could wish for," he 
said. ' ' Maybe ye 're not knowing it, but ye are a bride 
groom this day." And the King went on to tell him 
the whole tale. The tale being finished, he sent ten 
strong men to bring the Princess down. 

A king's word was law in those days. The Vagabone 
knew this; and, what's more, he knew he must marry 
the Princess, whether he liked it or no. The Vagabone 
had great height, but he stooped so that it shortened the 
length of him. His hair was long, and it fell, uncombed 
and matted, about his shoulders. His brogues were 
patched, his hose were sadly worn, and with his rags he 
was the sorriest cut of a man that a maid ever laid her 
two eyes on. When the Princess came, she was dressed 
in a gown of gold, with jewels hanging from every thread 
of it, and her cap was caught with a jeweled brooch. She 
looked as beautiful as a May morning — with a thunder- 
cloud rising back of the hills; and the Vagabone held 

[396] 



THE PRINCESS AND THE VAGABONE 

his breath for a moment, watching her. Then he pulled 
the King gently by the arm. 

"Ill not have a wife that looks grander than myself. 
If I marry your daughter, I must marry her in rags — ■ 
the same as my own. ' ' 

The King agreed 'twas a good idea, and sent for the 
worst dress of rags in the whole countryside. The rags 
were fetched, the Princess dressed, the priest brought, 
and the two of them married ; and, though she cried and 
she kicked and she cuffed and she prayed, she was the 
Vagabone 's wife — hard and fast. 

" Now take her, and good luck go with ye," said the 

King. Then his eyes fell on the tongs on the hearth. 

I " Here, take these along — they may come in handy 

on the road; but, whatever ye do, don't let them out 

I of your hands, for your wife is very powerful with them 

herself." 

Out of the castle gate, across the gardens, and into the 
country that lay beyond went the Princess and the Vaga- 
bone. The sky was blue over their heads and the air 
was full of spring; each wee creature that passed them 
on the road seemed bursting with the joy of it. There 
was naught but anger in the Princess' heart, however; 
and what was in the heart of the Yagabone I cannot be 
telling. This I know — that he sang the " Song of the 
Wran " as they went. Often and often the Princess 
turned back on the road or sat down, swearing she would 
go no farther; and often and often did she feel the 
weight of the tongs across her shoulders that day. 

At noon the two sat down by the cross-roads to rest. 

"lam hungry," said the Princess; " not a morsel of 
food have I tasted this day. Ye will go get me some." 

[397] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" Not I, my dear/' said the Vagabone; " ye will go [ 
beg for yourself/' 

' l Never, ' ' said the Princess. 

" Then yell go hungry," said the Vagabone; and 
that was all. He lighted his pipe and went to sleep with 
one eye open and the tongs under him. 

One, two, three hours passed, and the sun hung low 
in the sky. The Princess sat there until hunger drove 
her to her feet. She rose wearily and stumbled to the 
road. It might have been the sound of wheels that had 
startled her, I cannot be telling; but as she reached the 
road a great coach drawn by six black horses came gallop- 
ing up. The Princess made a sign for it to stop; for 
though she was in rags, yet she was still so beautiful that 
the coachman drew in the horses and asked her what 
she was wanting. 

"lam near to starving; " and as she spoke the tears 
started to her eyes, while a new soft note crept into her 
voice. " Do ye think your master could spare me a bit 
of food — or a shilling ? ' ' and the hand that had been 
used to strike went out for the first time to beg. 

It was a prince who rode inside the coach that day, and 
he heard her. Reaching out a fine, big hamper through 
the window, he told her she was hearty welcome to what- 
ever she found in it, along with his blessing. But as she 
put up her arms for it, just, she looked — and saw that 
the prince was none other than the fat suitor whose face 
she had slapped on the day before. Then anger came 
back to her again, for the shame of begging from him. 
She emptied the hamper — chicken pasty, jam, currant 
bread, and all — on top of his head, peering through the 
window, and threw the empty basket at the coachman. 

[398] 



THE PRINCESS AND THE VAGABONE 

Away drove the coach ; away ran the Princess, and threw 
herself, sobbing, on the ground, near the Vagabone. 

" 'Twas a good dinner that ye lost," said the Vaga- 
bone ; and that was all. 

But the next coach that passed she stopped. This time 
it was the shaggy-bearded rascal that rode inside. She 
paid no heed, however, and begged again for food; but 
her cheeks grew crimson when he looked at her, and she 
had to be biting her lips fiercely to keep the sharp words 
back. 

11 Ye are a lazy good-for-naught to beg. Why don't 
ye work for your food ? ' ' called the rascal after her. 

And the Vagabone answered : "Ye are right entirely. 
Tis a sin to beg, and tomorrow I'll be teaching her a 
trade, so she need never be asking charity again upon the 
highroad. ' ' 

That night they reached a wee scrap of a cabin on the 
side of a hill. The Vagabone climbed the steps and 
opened the door. " Here we are at home, my dear," 
said he. 

" What kind of a home do ye call that? " and the 
Princess stamped her foot. ' ' Faith, I '11 not live in it. ' ' 

" Then ye can live outside; it's all the same to me." 
The Vagabone went in and closed the door after him; 
and in a moment he was whistling merrily the song of 
" The Wee Brown Wran." 

The Princess sat down on the ground and nursed her 
poor tired knees. She had walked many a mile that 
day, with a heavy heart and an empty stomach — two 
of the worst traveling companions ye can find. The 
night came down, black as a raven's wing; the dew fell, 
heavy as rain, wetting the rags and chilling the Princess 

[399] 



THE SHORT STORY 



to the marrow. The wind blew fresh from the sea, and 
the wolves began their howling in the woods near by, 
and at last, what with the cold and the fear and thej 
loneliness of it, she could bear it no longer, and she 3 
crept softly up to the cabin and went in. 

' ' There 's the creepy-stool by the fire, waiting for ye, ' ' 
said the Yagabone; and that was all. But late in the 
night he lifted her from the chimney-corner where shej 
had dropped asleep and laid her gently on the bed, which & 
was freshly made and clean. And he sat by the hearth] 
till dawn, keeping the turf piled high on the fire, so^ 
that the cold would not waken her. Once he left the 
hearth; coming to the bedside, he stood a moment to 
watch her while she slept, and he stopped and kissed the j 
wee pink palm of her hand that lay there like a half-j 
closed loch lily. 

Next morning the first thing the Princess asked was - 
where was the breakfast, and where were the servants to 
wait on her, and where were some decent clothes. 

1 ' Your servants are your own two hands, and they 7 
will serve ye well when ye teach them how, ' ' was the [ 
answer she got. 

" I'll have neither breakfast nor clothes if I have to 
be getting them myself. And shame on ye for treating : 
a wife so," and the Princess caught up a piggin and 
threw it at the Vagabone. 

He jumped clear of it, and it struck the wall behind 
him. i l Have your own way, my dear, ' ' and he left her j 
to go out on the bogs and cut turf. 

That night the Princess hung the kettle and made stir- 
about and griddle bread for the two of them. 

" 'Tis the best I have tasted since I was a lad and 

[400] 



THE PRINCESS AND THE VAGABONE 

; , 

I my mother made the baking," said the Vagabone, and 
jthat was all. But often and often his lips touched the 
j braids of her hair as she passed him in the dark; and 

again he sat through the night, keeping the fire and 
I mending her wee leather brogues, that they might be 

whole against the morrow. 

Next day he brought some sally twigs and showed her 
j how to weave them into creels to sell on coming market- 
! day. But the twigs cut her fingers until they bled, and 

the Princess cried, making the Vagabone white with 
I rage. Never had she seen such a rage in another crea- 
| ture. He threw the sally twigs about the cabin, making 
j them whirl and eddy like leaves before an autumn wind ; 

he stamped upon the half -made creel, crushing it to pulp 
| under his feet ; and, catching up the table, he tore it to 
| splinters, throwing the fragments into the fire, where 
j they blazed. 
i ' ' By St. Patrick, 'tis a bad bargain that ye are ! I 

will take ye this day to the castle in the next county, 

where I hear they are needing a scullery-maid, and there 

I'll apprentice ye to the King's cook." 

11 I will not go," said the Princess; but even as she 

spoke fear showed in her eyes and her knees began to 

tremble under her. 
" Aye, but ye will, my dear; " and the Vagabone took 

up the tongs quietly from the hearth. 

For a month the Princess worked in the castle of 

the King, and all that time she never saw the Vaga- 
bone. 

Often and often she said to herself, fiercely, that she 

was well rid of him ; but often, as she sat alone after her 

work in the cool of the night, she would wish for the 

[401] 



THE SHORT STORY 



song of ' ' The Wee Brown Wran, ' ' while a new loneliness 
crept deeper and deeper into her heart. 

She worked hard about the kitchen, and as she scrubbed ) 
the pots and turned the spit and cleaned the floor with 
fresh white sand she listened to the wonderful tales the 
other servants had to tell of the King. They had it that 
he was the handsomest, aye, and the strongest, king 
in all Ireland; and every man and child and little 
creature in his kingdom worshiped him. And after the i: 
tales were told the Princess would say to herself: " If 
I had not been so proud and free with my tongue, I 
might have married such a king, and ruled his kingdom 
With him, learning kindness. " 

Now it happened one day that the Princess was told 
to be unusually spry and careful about her work; and 
there was a monstrous deal of it to be done : cakes to be 
iced and puddings to be boiled, fat ducks to be roasted, 
and a whole sucking pig put on the spit to turn. 

" What's the meaning of all this? " asked the Prin- 
cess. 

1 ' Ochone, ye poor feeble-minded girl ! ' ' and the cook 
looked at her pityingly. *' Haven't ye heard the King \ 
is to be married this day to the fairest princess in seven 
counties? " 

" Once that was I," thought the Princess, and she p 
sighed. 

" What makes ye sigh? " asked the cook. 

" I was wishing, just, that I could be having a peep J 
at her and the King." 

" Faith, that's possible. Do your work well, and 
maybe I can put ye where ye can see without being i 



: 



[402] 



THE PRINCESS AND THE VAGABONE 

So it came about, as I am telling ye, at the end of the 
day, when the feast was ready and the guests come, that 
the Princess was hidden behind the broidered curtains 
in the great hall. There, where no one could see her, 
she watched the hundreds upon hundreds of fair ladies 
and fine noblempn in their silken dresses and shining 
coats, all silver and gold, march back and forth across 
the hall, laughing and talking and making merry among 
themselves. Then the pipes began to play, and every- 
body was still. From the farthest end of the hall came 
two-and-twenty lads in white and gold; these were fol- 
lowed by two-and-twenty pipers in green and gold and 
two-and-twenty bowmen in saffron and gold, and, last of 
all, the King. 

A scream, a wee wisp of a cry, broke from the Prin- 
cess, and she would have fallen had she not caught one 
of the curtains. For the King was as tall and strong 
and beautiful as Nuada of the Silver Hand; and from 
the top of his curling black hair down the seven feet of 
him to the golden clasps of his shoes he was every whit 
as handsome as he had been that day when she had 
cuffed him in her father's castle. 

The King heard the cry and stopped the pipers. ' ' I 
think," said he, " there's a scullery-maid behind the 
curtains. Someone fetch her to me. ' ' 

A hundred hands pulled the Princess out ; a hundred 
more pushed her across the hall to the feet of the King, 
and held her there, fearing lest she should escape. 
| ' ' "What were ye doing there ? ' ' the King asked. 

" Looking at ye, and wishing I had the undoing of 
I things I have done," and the Princess hung her head 
I and sobbed piteously. 

[403] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" Nay, sweetheart, things are best as they are," and 
there came a look into the King's eyes that blinded 
those watching, so that they turned away and left the 
two alone. 

" Heart of mine," he went on, softly, " are ye not 
knowing me? " 

" Ye are putting more shame on me because of my 
evil tongue and the blow my hand gave ye that day. ' ' 

" I' faith, it is not so. Look at me." 

Slowly the eyes of the Princess looked into the eyes of 
the King. For a moment she could not be reading 
them; she was as a child who pores over a strange tale 
after the light fades and it grows too dark to see. But 
bit by bit the meaning of it came to her, and her heart 
grew glad with the wonder of it. Out went her arms 
to him with the cry of loneliness that had been hers so ] 
long. 

" I never dreamed that it was ye; never once." 

' ' Can ye ever love and forgive ? ' ' asked the King. 

' ' Hush ye ! " and the Princess laid her finger on his 
lips. 

The tirewomen were called and she was led away. Her 
rags were changed for a dress that was spun from gold 
and woven with pearls, and her beauty shone about her 
like a great light. 

They were married again that night, for none of 
the guests were knowing of that first wedding long 
ago. . 

Late o' that night a singing sthronshuch came under 
the Princess' window, and very softly the words of his 
song came to her: 



: ! 



[404] 



THE PRINCESS AND THE VAGABONE 



The gay young wran sang over the moor. 

" I'll build me a nest," sang he. 

" 'Twill have a thatch and a wee latched door, 

For the wind blows cold from the sea. 

And I'll let no one but my true love in, 

For she is the mate for me," 

Sang the gay young wran. 

The wee brown wran by the hedgerow cried — 

" I'll wait for him here," cried she. 

" For the way is far and the world is wide, 

And he might miss the way to me. 

Long is the time when the heart is shut, 

But I'll open to none save he," 

Sang the wee brown wran. 

The grating opened slowly; the Princess leaned far 
out, her eyes like stars in the night, and when she spoke 
there was naught but gentleness and love in her voice. 

1 ' Here is the silver I would have thrown ye on a day 
long gone by. Shall I throw it now, or will ye come 
for it? " 

And that was how a princess of Connaught was won 
by a king who was a vagabone. 



[405] 



HEART OF DARKNESS * 
By Joseph Conrad 



Joseph Conrad is a native of Poland, who has chosen 
England as his home and the English tongue as his literary! 
language. He was born in 1857, and as a boy chose the life 
of the sea as his calling. At the age of nineteen he entered the 
English Merchant Service and soon rose through the ranks of 
apprentice and mate to that of master, and thus followed the 
sea for nineteen years. When he began his first book, he 
had to choose between French, a language he had known from 
boyhood, and English, a tongue acquired in early manhood. He 
chose English. Almayer's Folly was this first book. It was 
begun in 1890 and written at odd times afloat and ashore 
during the next five years. Mr. Conrad left the sea soon after 
his literary success had become an assured fact and now makes 
his home in the south of England. 

Among his best known books are: Almayer's Folly, 1895; 
An Outcast of the Islands, 1896; The Nigger of the Narcissus, 
1897; Tales of Unrest, 1898; Lord Jim, 1900; Youth, and Two 
Other Tales, 1902; Typhoon, 1903; Nostromo, 1904; The Mirror 
of the Sea, 1906; and The Secret Agent, 1907. 

Heart of Darkness is in reality a novelette. It is one of 
the three narratives included in the volume entitled Youth, 
published by Messrs. Doubleday, Page, and Company. Conrad's 
style is individual and his technic different from that of the 
usual short story writer. Instead of deliberate plot-making 
he appears to be telling a story from first hand experience. 
He lets us have the details as they recur to him, and the effect 
is tremendously like life. Apparently he is not concerned with 
ethical or philosophical themes. He mirrors a phase of life 

* Copyright 1902. Reprinted from Youth, by permission of 
the author and the publishers, Doubleday, Page and Company. 

[406] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



and lets it sink home, carrying whatever meaning it will. 
Heart of Darkness is a terrible condemnation of the com- 
mercial policy of those who exploit the tropics; but one feels 
that Mr. Conrad's chief concern is to depict the sinking of a 
great soul back into elemental savagery under the compelling 
spell of the torrid jungle. It is the story of the reversion of 
the soul of Mr. Kurtz. 

The chief external difference between a short story and a 
novelette is in the observance of economy of means. There are 
tales that do not admit of economy. The writer deals with 
many people in extensive spaces and seeks to produce results 
which cannot be held within the compass of a few thousand 
words. Such a tale is Heart of Darkness. 

Only the final third of the story is here given in full. The 
beginning and middle (sections one and two), for want of 
space in this volume, must be presented in the form of a synop- 
sis — a feeble device when one comes to recognize the necessity 
of producing a cumulative effect in order fully to realize the 
appalling culmination of the spell of the jungle. 



Five men — a Director of Companies, a Lawyer, an 
Accountant, the narrator, and Marlow — all one-time 
seamen, are aboard a cruising yawl and waiting at night 
at the mouth of the Thames for the turn of the tide. 
They watch the lights of traffic go by, up to London or 
down to the sea. 

" And this also," said Marlow suddenly, " has been 
one of the dark places of the earth. ' ' 

Marlow then begins to compare the coming of the 
Romans to Britain with the conquest of the equatorial 
dark places by the civilized men of his own day, and 
suddenly concludes that the Romans did in Britain just 
what he has seen modern Europeans do in Africa. " It 
! was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on 

I [ 407 ] 



THE SHORT STORY 



a large scale, and men going it blind — as is very proper 
for those who tackle a darkness. " 

He works up to his story. Returning to London 
after long cruises in the East he is unable to find a suit- 
able ship. As a child the blank places on the map had 
lured him. One such dark place now beckons — a trop- 
ical jungle where a continental company has a number 
of trading posts. Through the influence of a benevolent 
old aunt he is sent down there as the captain of a river 
steamboat. After thirty days he is set ashore at the 
mouth of the big river. He goes up the river for thirty 
miles on a small sea-going steamer and is landed at the 
company's post. Here he gets his first sight of the 
brutalizing effect of the darkness. It is at this station 
that he first hears of an efficient man somewhere in the 
interior named Mr. Kurtz. Marlow now joins a caravan 
of sixty men on a march of two hundred miles up the 
river to the main station of the company, where he is to 
meet the manager and take charge of his steamboat. 
Upon his arrival after fifteen days he learns that 
the boat has been sunk and that Mr. Kurtz's station far 
up the river is in peril and Kurtz himself desper- 
ately ill. 

The general manager and a number of "pilgrims," 
hanging about the central station drawing pay and await- 
ing promotion, are jealous of Mr. Kurtz and hope that he 
will die before help can reach him. Marlow learns that 
Mr. Kurtz is a man of energy sent out from Europe by 
the " gang of virtue " to learn the business and 
eventually become the resident manager. He has proved 
efficient. The lethargy of the jungle has not come upon 
him. He has lived. He is sending out more ivory than 

[408] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



all the other stations combined. We become interested 
in Mr. Kurtz. We are anxious that he be relieved. 

II 

The second part takes us up the river a thousand miles 
to Mr. Kurtz's station. Marlow has succeeded in rais- 
ing and repairing the boat after a delay of six months 
or more. Incidentally he has learned while waiting 
that Mr. Kurtz has come out originally with the idea of 
commercial success uppermost but with a notion as well 
that " Each station should be like a beacon on the road 
to better things, a center for trade of course, but also 
for humanizing, improving, instructing. ' ' Some months 
before Mr. Kurtz had started down the river with a 
string of canoes loaded with ivory, but after coming 
three hundred miles of the way, had for some mysterious 
reason given over the charge of the ivory to a half- 
caste assistant and returned to his empty station alone. 

It takes the men in the wretched steamboat two months 
to make the journey up the tropical river to Mr. Kurtz's 
station. Fifty miles below the station they came to an 
abandoned hut on the river bank. A message on a 
board said, " Hurry up. Approach cautiously." They 
suppose the hut to belong to a trader who had been giv- 
ing the company some anxiety. The boat is attacked 
by savages just before reaching the station and the 
helmsman is killed. All is quiet at the station. The 
rival trader meets the manager and assures him that 
Mr. Kurtz, though desperately ill, still lives. 

Before reaching the end of the section Mr. Conrad 
allows Marlow to anticipate his actual meeting with 
Mr. Kurtz and tell us about the boat load of ivory that 

[409] 



THE SHORT STORY 



had been collected by Kurtz, and what Kurtz has said 
to him on the return down the river. Kurtz had placed 
in the hands of Marlow the manuscript of a report he 
had written for the International Society for the Sup- 
pression of Savage Customs. " But this/' explains 
Marlow, " must have been written before his — let us 
say — nerves went wrong and caused him to preside at 
certain midnight dances ending with unspeakable rites, 
which were offered up to him — to Mr. Kurtz himself. ' ' 
At the end of the pamphlet and apparently written much 
later than the original manuscript Marlow found, this 
sentence, " Exterminate all the brutes! " 

At the opening of section three the boat has landed. 
The savages have retired to the forest surrounding the 
clearing about the station. The manager and the " pil- 
grims " have gone to the hut where Mr. Kurtz lies sick 
unto death. The young Russian trader in the motley 
apparel has come on board the boat to talk English with 
Marlow. 

Ill 

" I looked at him, lost in astonishment. There he 
was before me, in motley, as though he had absconded 
from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic, fabulous. His 
very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and alto- 
gether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It 
was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had suc- 
ceeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain 
— why he did not instantly disappear. ' I went a little 
farther, ' he said, ' then still a little farther — till I had 
gone so far that I don't know how I'll ever get back. 
Never mind. Plenty time. I can manage. You take 

[410] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



Kurtz away quick — quick — I tell you.' The glamour 
of youth enveloped his particolored rags, his destitution, 
his loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wan- 
derings. For months — for years — his life hadn 't been 
worth a day's purchase; and there he was gallantly, 
thoughtlessly alive, to all appearance indestructible solely 
by the virtue of his few years and of his unreflecting 
audacity. I was seduced into something like admiration 
— like envy. Glamour urged him on, glamour kept him 
unscathed. He surely wanted nothing from the wilder- 
ness but space to breathe in and to push on through. 
His need was to exist, and to move onwards at the great- 
est possible risk, and with a maximum of privation. If 
the absolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical spirit of 
adventure had ever ruled a human being, it ruled this 
be-patched youth. I almost envied him the possession 
of this modest and clear flame. It seemed to have con- 
sumed all thought of self so completely, that, even while 
he was talking to you, you forgot that it was he — the 
man before your eyes — who had gone through these 
things. I did not envy him his devotion to Kurtz, 
though. He had not meditated over it. It came to him, 
and he accepted it with a sort of eager fatalism. I must 
say that to me it appeared about the most dangerous 
thing in every way he had come upon so far. 

" They had come together unavoidably, like two ships 
becalmed near each other, and lay rubbing sides at last. 
I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience, because on a cer- 
tain occasion, when encamped in the forest, they had 
talked all night, or more probably Kurtz had talked. 
1 We talked of everything/ he said, quite transported 
at the recollection. ' I forgot there was such a thing 

[411] 



THE SHORT STORY 



as sleep. The night did not seem to last an hour. 
Everything ! Everything ! ... Of love too. ' ' Ah, 
he talked to you of love ! ' I said, much amused. ' It isn't 
what you think,' he cried, almost passionately. ' It 
was in general. He made me see things — things. ' 

' ' He threw his arms up. We were on deck at the time, 
and the headman of my wood-cutters, lounging near by, 
turned upon him his heavy and glittering eyes. I looked 
around, and I don't know why, but I assure you that 
never, never before, did this land, this river, this jungle, 
the very arch of this blazing sky, appear to me so hope- 
less and so dark, so impenetrable to human thought, so 
pitiless to human weakness. ' And, ever since, you have 
been with him, of course? ' I said. 

" On the contrary. It appears their intercourse had 
been very much broken by various causes. He had, as 
he informed me proudly, managed to nurse Kurtz 
through two illnesses (he alluded to it as you would to 
some risky feat), but as a rule Kurtz wandered alone, 
far in the depths of the forest. ' Very often coming to 
this station, I had to wait days and days before he would 
turn up,' he said. ' Ah, it was worth waiting for! — 
sometimes. ' l What was he doing ? exploring or what ? ' 
I asked. ' Oh, yes, of course; ' he had discovered lots 
of villages, a lake, too — he did not know exactly in what 
direction; it was dangerous to inquire too much — but 
mostly his expeditions had been for ivory. ' But he had 
no goods to trade with by that time, ' I objected. ' There 's 
a good lot of cartridges left even yet, ' he answered, look- 
ing away. ' To speak plainly, he raided the country,' 
I said. He nodded. ' Not alone, surely ! ' He muttered 
something about the villages round that lake. ' Kurtz 

[ 412 ] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



got the tribe to follow him, did he? ' I suggested. He 
fidgeted a little. ' They adored him, ' he said. The tone 
of these words was so extraordinary that I looked at 
him searchingly. It was curious to see his mingled eager- 
ness and reluctance to speak of Kurtz. The man filled 
his life, occupied his thoughts, swayed his emotions. 
1 What can you expect ? ' he burst out ; ' he came to them 
with thunder and lightning, you know — and they had 
never seen anything like it — and very terrible. He 
could be very terrible. You can't judge Mr. Kurtz as 
you would an ordinary man. No, no, no ! Now — just 
to give you an idea — I don't mind telling you, he 
wanted to shoot me, too, one day — but I don't judge 
him.' ' Shoot you! ' I cried. ' What for? ' ' Well, I 
had a small lot of ivory the chief of that village near my 
house gave me. You see I used to shoot game for them. 
Well, he wanted it, and wouldn't hear reason. He 
declared he would shoot me unless I gave him the ivory 
and then cleared out of the country, because he could do 
so, and had a fancy for it, and there was nothing on 
earth to prevent him killing whom he jolly well pleased. 
And it was true, too. I gave him the ivory. What did 
I care! But I didn't clear out. No, no. I couldn't 
leave him. I had to be careful, of course, till we got 
friendly again for a time. He had his second illness 
then. Afterwards I had to keep out of the way; but I 
didn't mind. He was living for the most part in those 
villages on the lake. When he came down to the river, 
sometimes he would take to me, and sometimes it was 
better for me to be careful. This man suffered too much. 
He hated all this, and somehow he couldn't get away. 
When I had a chance I begged him to try and leave while 

[413] 



THE SHORT STORY 



there was time ; I offered to go back with him. And he 
would say yes, and then he would remain; go off on 
another ivory hunt ; disappear for weeks ; forget himself 
amongst these people — forget himself — you know.' 
* Why ! he 's mad, ' I said. He protested indignantly. 
Mr. Kurtz couldn't be mad. If I had heard him talk, 
only two days ago, I wouldn't dare hint at such a thing. 
. . . I had taken up my binoculars while we talked 
and was looking at the shore, sweeping the limit of the 
forest at each side and at the back of the house. The 
consciousness of there being people in that bush, so silent, 
so quiet — as silent and quiet as the ruined house on the 
hill — made me uneasy. There was no sign on the face 
of nature of this amazing tale that was not so much told 
as suggested to me in desolate exclamations, completed 
by shrugs, in interrupted phrases, in hints ending in 
deep sighs. The woods were unmoved, like a mask — 
heavy, like the closed door of a prison — they looked 
with their air of hidden knowledge, of patient expecta- 
tion, of unapproachable silence. The Russian was 
explaining to me that it was only lately that Mr. Kurtz 
had come down to the river, bringing along with him all 
the fighting men of that lake tribe. He had been absent 
for several months — getting himself adored, I suppose 
— and had come down unexpectedly, with the intention 
to all appearance of making a raid either across the river 
or down stream. Evidently the appetite for more ivory 
had got the better of the — what shall I say? — less 
material aspirations. However, he had got much worse 
suddenly. ' I heard he was lying helpless, and so I came 
up — took my chance,' said the Russian. ' Oh, he is 
bad, very bad. ' I directed my glass to the house. There 

[414] 



I HEART OF DARKNESS 

r 

j were no signs of life, but there was the ruined roof, 
the long mud wall peeping above the grass, with three 

| little square window-holes, no two of the same size ; all 
this brought within reach of my hand, as it were. And 

j then I made a brusque movement, and one of the remain- 
ing posts of that vanished fence leaped up in the field 
of my glass. You remember I told you I had been struck 
at the distance by certain attempts at ornamentation, 
rather remarkable in the ruinous aspect of the place. 
Now I had suddenly a nearer view, and its first result 
was to make me throw my head back as if before a blow. 
Then I went carefully from post to post with my glass, 
and I saw my mistake. These round knobs were not 
ornamental but symbolic; they were expressive and 
puzzling, striking, and disturbing — food for thought 
and also for the vultures if there had been any looking 
down from the sky; but at all events for such ants as 
were industrious enough to ascend the pole. They would 
have been even more impressive, those heads on the 
stakes, if their faces had not been turned to the house. 
Only one, the first I had made out, was facing my way. 
I was not so shocked as you may think. The start back 
I had given was really nothing but a movement of sur- 
prise. I had expected to see a knob of wood there, you 
know. I returned deliberately to the first I had seen — 
and there it was, black, dried, sunken, with closed eye- 
lids — a head that seemed to sleep at the top of that pole, 
and, with the shrunken dry lips showing a narrow white 
line of the teeth, was smiling, too, smiling continuously 
at some endless and jocose dream of that eternal slumber. 
a Iam not disclosing any trade secrets. In fact, the 
manager said afterwards that Mr. Kurtz's methods had 

[415] 



THE SHORT STORY 



ruined the district. I have no opinion on that point, 
but I want you clearly to understand that there was 
nothing exactly profitable in these heads being there. 
They only showed that Mr. Kurtz lacked restraint in the 
gratification of his various lusts, that there was some- 
thing wanting in him — some small matter which, when 
the pressing need arose, could not be found under his 
magnificent eloquence. Whether he knew of this defici- i 
ency himself I can't say. I think the knowledge came 
to him at last — only at the very last. But the wilder- 
ness had found him out early, and had taken on him a I 
terrible vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it 
had whispered to him things about himself which he did 
not know, things of which he had no conception till he 
took counsel with this great solitude — and the whisper 
had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly 
within him because he was hollow at the core. ... I I 
put down the glass, and the head that had appeared near ! 
enough to be spoken to seemed at once to have leaped I 
away from me into inaccessible distance. 

' ' The admirer of Mr. Kurtz was a bit crestfallen. In j 
a hurried, indistinct voice he began to assure me he had 
not dared to take these — say, symbols — down. He was 
not afraid of the natives; they would not stir till Mr. j 
Kurtz gave the word. His ascendency was extraor- ' 
dinary. The camps of these people surrounded the I 
place, and the chiefs came every day to see him. They 
would crawl. ... * I don't want to know anything 
of the ceremonies used when approaching Mr. Kurtz,' I ; 
shouted. Curious, this feeling that came over me that 
such details would be more intolerable than those heads 
drying on the stakes under Mr. Kurtz 's windows. After 

[416] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



all, that was only a savage sight, while I seemed at one 
bound to have been transported into some lightless 
region of subtle horrors, where pure, uncomplicated 
savagery was a positive relief, being something that had 
a right to exist — obviously — in the sunshine. The 
young man looked at me with surprise. I suppose it 
did not occur to him Mr. Kurtz was no idol of mine. 
He forgot I hadn't heard any of these splendid mono- 
logues on, what was it ? on love, justice, conduct of life — 
or what not. If it had come to crawling before Mr. 
Kurtz, he crawled as much as the veriest savage of them 
all. I had no idea of the conditions, he said : these heads 
were the heads of rebels. I shocked him excessively by 
laughing. Rebels! What would be the next definition 
I was to hear ? There had been enemies, criminals, work- 
ers — and these were rebels. Those rebellious heads 
looked very subdued to me on their sticks. ' You don't 
know how such a life tries a man like Kurtz,' cried 
Kurtz 's last disciple. ' Well, and you ? ' I said. l I ! I ! 
I am a simple man. I have no great thoughts. I want 
nothing from anybody. How can you compare me to 
. . .? ' His feelings were too much for speech, and 
suddenly he broke down. ' I don't understand,' he 
groaned. i I've been doing my best to keep him alive, 
and that's enough. I had no hand in all this. I have 
no abilities. There hasn't been a drop of medicine or a 
mouthful of invalid food for months here. He was 
shamefully abandoned. A man like this, with such ideas. 
Shamefully! Shamefully! I — I — haven't slept for 
the last ten nights. . . . ' 

' ' His voice lost itself in the calm of the evening. The 
long shadows of the forest had slipped down hill while 

[417] 



THE SHORT STORY 



we talked, had gone far beyond the ruined hovel, beyond 
the symbolic row of stakes. All this was in the gloom, 
while we down there were yet in the sunshine, and the i 
stretch of the river abreast of the clearing glittered ml 
a' still and dazzling splendor, with a murky and over- ; 
shadowed bend above and below. Not a living soul was (j 
seen on the shore. The bushes did not rustle. 

* * Suddenly round the corner of the house a group of [ 
men appeared, as though they had come up from the t 
ground. They waded waist-deep in the grass, in a com- i 
pact body, bearing an improvised stretcher in their midst. \ 
Instantly, in the emptiness of the landscape, a cry arose - 
whose shrillness pierced the still air like a sharp arrow ; 
flying straight to the very heart of the land; and, as r 
if by enchantment, streams of human beings — of naked \ 
human beings — with spears in their hands, with bows, f 
with shields, with wild glances and savage movements. ^ 
were poured into the clearing by the dark-faced and [ 
pensive forest. The bushes shook, the grass swayed fori? 
a time, and then everything stood still in attentive 2 
immobility. 

* ' ' Now, if he does not say the right thing to them we 
are all done for,' said the Russian at my elbow. Thei 
knot of men with the stretcher had stopped, too, half-way 
to the steamer, as if petrified. I saw the man on 
the stretcher sit up, lank and with an uplifted arm, above 
the shoulders of the bearers. ' Let us hope that the man , 
who can talk so well of love in general will find some 
particular reason to spare us this time,' I said. I? 
resented bitterly the absurd danger of our situation, as 
if to be at the mercy of that atrocious phantom had been , 
a dishonoring necessity. I could not hear a sound, but 

[418] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



, through my glasses I saw the thin arm extended com- 
; mandingly, the lower jaw moving, the eyes of that appa- 
; rition shining darkly far in its bony head that nodded 
'with grotesque jerks. Kurtz — Kurtz — that means 
! short in German — don't it? Well, the name was as 
I true as everything else in his life — and death. He 
! looked at least seven feet long. His covering had fallen 
I off, and his body emerged from it pitiful and appalling 
! as from a winding-sheet. I could see the cage of his ribs 
\ all astir, the bones of his arm waving. It was as though 
an animated image of death carved out of old ivory had 
been shaking its hand with menaces at a motionless crowd 
of men made of dark and glittering bronze. I saw him 
open his mouth wide — it gave him a weirdly voracious 
aspect, as though he had wanted to swallow all the air, 
all the earth, all the men before him. A deep voice 
reached me faintly. He must have been shouting. He 
fell back suddenly. The stretcher shook as the bearers 
staggered forward again, and almost at the same time I 
noticed that the crowd of savages was vanishing with- 
out any perceptible movement of retreat, as if the forest 
that had ejected these beings so suddenly had drawn 
them in again as the breath is drawn in a long aspira- 
tion. 

" Some of the pilgrims behind the stretcher carried 
his arms — two shot-guns, a heavy rifle, and a light 
I revolver-carbine — the thunderbolts of that pitiful Jupi- 
|ter. The manager bent over him murmuring as he 
jwalked beside his head. They laid him down in one of 
the little cabins — just a room for a bed-place and a 
I camp-stool or two, you know. We had brought his 
Ibelated correspondence, and a lot of torn envelopes and 

I [ 419 ] 



THE SHORT STORY 



open letters littered his bed. His hand roamed feebly 
amongst these papers. I was struck by the fire of his 
eyes and the composed languor of his expression. It 
was not so much the exhaustion of disease. He did not' 
seem in pain. This shadow looked satiated and calm, 1 
as though for the moment it had had its fill of all the; 
emotions. 

" He rustled one of the letters, and looking straight 
in my face said, ' I am glad. ' Somebody had been writ- 1 
ing to him about me. These special recommendations 
were turning up again. The volume of tone he emitted 
without effort, almost without the trouble of moving his 7 
lips, amazed me. A voice ! a voice ! It was grave, pro- 
found, vibrating, while the man did not seem capable 
of a whisper. However, he had enough strength in him- 
— factitious no doubt — to very nearly make an end of 
us, as you shall hear directly. 

" The manager appeared silently in the doorway; I 
stepped out at once and he drew the curtain after me; 
The Russian, eyed curiously by the pilgrims, was star-' 
ing at the shore. I followed the direction of his glance. 

" Dark human shapes could be made out in the dis- 
tance, flitting indistinctly against the gloomy border of 
the forest, and near the river two bronze figures, leaning 
on tall spears, stood in the sunlight under fantastic head-; 
dresses of spotted skins, warlike and still in statuesque 
repose. And from right to left along the lighted shore 
moved a wild and gorgeous apparition of a woman. 

" She walked with measured steps, draped in striped : 
and fringed cloths, treading the earth proudly, with a 
slight jingle and flash of barbarous ornaments. She 
carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape 

[420] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



1 of a helmet; she had brass leggings to the knee, brass 
I wire gauntlets to the elbow, a crimson spot on her tawny 
j cheek, innumerable necklaces of glass beads on her neck ; 
| bizarre things, charms, gifts of witch-men, that hung 
I about her, glittered and trembled at every step. She 
I must have had the value of several elephant tusks upon 
her. 

She was savage and superb, wild-eyed and magni- 
i ficent ; there was something ominous and stately in her 
| deliberate progress. And in the hush that had fallen 
1 suddenly upon the whole sorrowful land, the immense 
' wilderness, the colossal body of the fecund and mys- 
terious life seemed to look at her, pensive, as though it 
had been looking at the image of its own tenebrous and 
passionate soul. 

" She came abreast of the steamer, stood still, and 
faced us. Her long shadow fell to the water's edge. 
Her face had a tragic and fierce aspect of wild sorrow 
and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some strug- 
gling, half -shaped resolve. She stood looking at us with- 
out a stir and like the wilderness itself, with an air of 
brooding over an inscrutable purpose. A whole minute 
passed, and then she made a step forward. There was a 
low jingle, a glint of yellow metal, a sway of fringed 
draperies, and she stopped as if her heart, had failed her. 
The young fellow by my side growled. The pilgrims 
murmured at my back. She looked at us all as if her 
life had depended upon the unswerving steadiness of her 
glance. Suddenly she opened her bared arms and threw 
them up rigid above her head, as though in an uncon- 
trollable desire to touch the sky, and at the same time 
the swift shadows darted out on the earth, swept around 

[421] 



THE SHORT STORY 



on the river, gathering the steamer into a shadowy- 
embrace. A formidable silence hung over the scene. 

" She turned away slowly, walked on, following the 
bank, and passed into the bushes to the left. Once only 
her eyes gleamed back at us in the dusk of the thickets 
before she disappeared. 

" ' If she had offered to come aboard I really think I [ 
would have tried to shoot her,' said the man of patches, I 
nervously. ' I had been risking my life every day for 
the last fortnight to keep her out of the house. She got ' 
in one day and kicked up a row about those miserable 
rags I picked up in the storeroom to mend my clothes 
with. I wasn't decent. At least it must have been that, 
for she talked like a fury to Kurtz for an hour, pointing 
at me now and then. I don't understand the dialect of 
this tribe. Luckily for me, I fancy Kurtz felt too ill 
that day to care, or there would have been mischief. I 
don't understand. . . . No — it's too much for me. 
Ah, well, it's all over now.' ' 

11 At this moment I heard Kurtz's deep voice behind 
the curtain, * Save me! — save the ivory, you mean. 
Don't tell me. Save me! Why, I've had to save you. 
You are interrupting my plans now. Sick ! Sick ! Not 
so sick as you would like to believe. Never mind. I '11 
carry my ideas out yet — I will return. I'll show you 
what can be done. You with your little peddling 
notions — you are interfering with me. I will return. 
I . . .' 

" The manager came out. He did me the honor to 
take me under the arm and lead me aside. ' He is very 
low, very low,' he said. He considered it necessary to 
sigh, but neglected to be consistently sorrowful. l We 

[422] 






HEART OF DARKNESS 



have done all we could for him — haven't we? But 
there is no disguising the fact, Mr. Kurtz has done more 
harm than good to the Company. He did not see the 
time was not ripe for vigorous action. Cautiously, cau- 
tiously — that 's my principle. We must be cautious yet. 
The district is closed to us for a time. Deplorable! 
Upon the whole, the trade will suffer. I don't deny 
there is a remarkable quantity of ivory — mostly fossil. 
We must save it, at all events — but look how precarious 
the position is — and why? Because the method is 
unsound.' ' Do you,' said I, looking at the shore, ' call 
it " unsound method " ? ' ' Without doubt,' he 
exclaimed, hotly. l Don't you? ' . . . ' No method 
at all,' I murmured after a while. ' Exactly,' he 
exulted. * I anticipated this. Shows a complete want 
of judgment. It is my duty to point it out in the proper 
quarter.' 'Oh,' said I, 'that fellow — what's his 
name? — the brickmaker, will make a readable report 
for you.' He appeared confounded for a moment. It 
seemed to me I had never breathed an atmosphere so 
vile, and I turned mentally to Kurtz for relief — posi- 
tively for relief. ' Nevertheless I think Mr. Kurtz is a 
remarkable man,' I said with emphasis. He started, 
dropped on me a cold, heavy glance, said very quietly, 
* He was,' and turned his back on me. My hour of 
favor was over ; I found myself lumped along with Kurtz 
as a partisan of methods for which the time was not ripe : 
I was unsound! Ah! but it was something to have at 
least a choice of nightmares. 

" I had turned to the wilderness really, not to Mr. 
Kurtz, who, I was ready to admit, was as good as buried. 
And for a moment it seemed to me as if I also were 

[423] 



THE SHORT STORY 



buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets. I felt | 
an intolerable weight oppressing my breast, the smell of 
the damp earth, the unseen presence of victorious corrup- 
tion, the darkness of an impenetrable night. . . . 
The Russian tapped me on the shoulder. I heard him 
mumbling and stammering something about ' brother 
seaman — couldn't conceal — knowledge of matters that 
would affect Mr. Kurtz's reputation.' I waited. For 
him evidently Mr. Kurtz was not in his grave ; I suspect 
that for him Mr. Kurtz was one of the immortals. 
' Well ! ' said I at last, ' speak out. As it happens, I am 
Mr. Kurtz 's friend — in a way. ' 

1 ' He stated with a good deal of formality that had we 
not been * of the same profession,' he would have kept 
the matter to himself without regard to consequences. 
' He suspected there was an active ill-will towards him 

on the part of these white men that ' l You are 

right, ' I said, remembering a certain conversation I had 
overheard. ' The manager thinks you ought to be 
hanged. ' He showed a concern at this intelligence which 
amused me at first. ' I had better get out of the way 
quietly/ he said, earnestly. ' I can do no more for 
Kurtz now, and they would soon find some excuse. 
What 's to stop them ? There 's a military post three hun- 
dred miles from here.' ' Well, upon my word,' said I, 
1 perhaps you had better go if you have any friends 
amongst the savages near by. ' ' Plenty, ' he said. ' They 
are simple people — and I want nothing, you know. f He 
stood biting his lip, then: ' I don't want any harm to 
happen to these whites here, but of course I was thinking 
of Mr. Kurtz's reputation — but you are a brother sea- 
man and ' * All right, ' said I, after a time. ' Mr. 

[424] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



Kurtz's reputation is safe with me.' I did not know 
how truly I spoke. 

" He informed me, lowering his voice, that it was 
Kurtz who had ordered the attack to be made on the 
steamer. ' He hated sometimes the idea of being taken 
away — and then again. . . . But I don't under- 
stand these matters. I am a simple man. He thought 
it would scare you away — that you would give it up, 
thinking him dead. I could not stop him. Oh, I had an 
awful time of it this last month.' ' Very well,' I said. 
' He is all right now. ' ' Ye-e-es, ' he muttered, not very 
convinced apparently. ' Thanks, ' said I ; ' I shall keep 
my eyes open. ' ' But quiet — eh ? 'he urged, anxiously. 
j It would be awful for his reputation if anybody 

here ' I promised a complete discretion with great 

gravity. * I have a canoe and three black fellows wait- 
ing not very far. I am off. Could you give me a few 
Martini-Henry cartridges? ' I could, and did, with 
proper secrecy. He helped himself, with a wink at me, 
to a handful of my tobacco. ' Between sailors — you 
know — good English tobacco. ' At the door of the pilot- 
house he turned round — ' I say, haven 't you a pair of 
shoes you could spare? ' He raised one leg. ' Look.' 
The soles were tied with knotted strings sandal-wise 
under his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, at which 
he looked with admiration before tucking it under his 
left arm. One of his pockets (bright red) was bulging 
with cartridges; from the other (dark blue) peeped 
1 Towson's Inquiry,' &c, &c. He seemed to think him- 
self excellently well equipped for a renewed encounter 
with the wilderness. ' Ah ! 1 11 never, never meet such a 
man again. You ought to have heard him recite poetry 

[425] 



THE SHORT STORY 



— his own, too, it was, he told me. Poetry ! ' He rolled! 
his eyes at the recollection of these delights. ' Oh, he 
enlarged my mind! ' * Good-by,' said I. He shook; 
hands and vanished in the night. Sometimes I ask 
myself whether I had ever really seen him — whether it 
was possible to meet such a phenomenon ! . . . 

* ' When I woke up shortly after midnight his warning \ 
came to my mind with its hint of danger that seemed, 
in the starred darkness, real enough to make me get up 
for the purpose of having a look round. On the hill a > 
big fire burned, illuminating fitfully a crooked corner of 
the station-house. One of the agents with a picket of a 
few of our blacks, armed for the purpose, was keeping j 
guard over the ivory ; but deep within the forest, red | 
gleams that wavered, that seemed to sink and rise from >, 
the ground amongst confused columnar shapes of intense 
blackness, showed the exact position of the camp where ; 
Mr. Kurtz's adorers were keeping their uneasy vigil. 
The monotonous beating of a big drum filled the air with 
muffled shocks and a lingering vibration. A steady dron- 
ing sound of many men chanting each to himself some 
weird incantation came out from the black, flat wall of 
the woods as the humming of bees comes out of a hive, 
and had a strange narcotic effect upon my half-awake 
senses. I believe I dozed off leaning over the rail, till 
an abrupt burst of yells, an overwhelming outbreak of 
a pent-up and mysterious frenzy, woke me up in a bewil- \ 
dered wonder. It was cut short all at once, and the low • 
droning went on with an effect of audible and soothing 
silence. I glanced casually into the little cabin. A light 
was burning within, but Mr. Kurtz was not there. 

" I think I would have raised an outcry if I had 

[426] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



believed my eyes. But I didn't believe them at first — 
the thing seemed so impossible. The fact is I was com- 
pletely unnerved by a sheer blank fright, pure abstract 
\ terror, unconnected with any distinct shape of physical 
: danger. What made this emotion so overpowering was 
| — how shall I define it? — the moral shock I received, 
I as if something altogether monstrous, intolerable to 
thought and odious to the soul, had been thrust upon me 
unexpectedly. This lasted of course the merest fraction 
of a second, and then the usual sense of commonplace, 
deadly danger, the possibility of a sudden onslaught 
and massacre, or something of the kind, which I saw 
impending, was positively welcome and composing. It 
pacified me, in fact, so much, that I did not raise an 
alarm. 

" There was an agent buttoned up inside an ulster 
and sleeping on a chair on deck within three feet of 
me. The yells had not awakened him; he snored very 
slightly; I left him to his slumbers and leaped ashore. 
I did not betray Mr. Kurtz — it was ordered I should 
never betray him — it was written I should be loyal to 
the nightmare of my choice. I was anxious to deal with 
this shadow by myself alone — and to this day I don't 
know why I was so jealous of sharing with anyone the 
peculiar blackness of that experience. 

* ' As soon as I got on the bank I saw a trail — a broad 
trail through the grass. I remember the exultation with 
which I said to myself, l He can 't walk — he is crawling 
on all-fours — I've got him.' The grass was wet with 
dew. I strode rapidly with clenched fists. I fancy I 
had some vague notion of falling upon him and giving 
him a drubbing. I don't know. I had some imbecile 

[427] 



THE SHORT STORY 



thoughts. The knitting old woman with the cat obtruded 
herself upon my memory as a most improper person to 
be sitting at the other end of such an affair. I saw a 
row of pilgrims squirting lead in the air out of Winches- 
ters held to the hip. I thought I would never get back 
to the steamer, and imagined myself living alone and 
unarmed in the woods to an advanced age. Such silly 
things — you know. And I remember I confounded the 
beat of the drum with the beating of my heart, and was 
pleased at its calm regularity. 

' ' I kept to the track though — then stopped to listen. 
The night was very clear : a dark blue space, sparkling 
with dew and starlight, in which black things stood very 
still. I thought I could see a kind of motion ahead of 
me. I was strangely cocksure of everything that night. 
I actually left the track and ran in a wide semi-circle 
(I verily believe chuckling to myself) so as to get in 
front of that stir, of that motion I had seen — if indeed 
I had seen anything. I was circumventing Kurtz as 
though it had been a boyish game. 

' ' I came upon him, and, if he had not heard me com- 
ing, I would have fallen over him, too, but he got up in 
time. He rose, unsteady, long, pale, indistinct, like a 
vapor exhaled by the earth, and swayed slightly, misty 
and silent before me ; while at my back the fires loomed 
between the trees, and the murmur of many voices issued 
from the forest. I had cut him off cleverly; but when 
actually confronting him I seemed to come to my senses, 
I saw the danger in its right proportion. It was by no 
means over yet. Suppose he began to shout? Though 
he could hardly stand, there was still plenty of vigor in 
his voice. ' Go away — hide yourself/ he said, in that 

[428] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



profound tone. It was very awful. I glanced back. 
We were within thirty yards from the nearest fire. A 
black figure stood up, strode on long black legs, waving 
long black arms, across the glow. It had horns — ante- 
lope horns, I think — on its head. Some sorcerer, some 
witch-man, no doubt: it looked fiend-like enough. ' Do 
you know what you are doing? ' I whispered. ' Per- 
fectly,' he answered, raising his voice for that single 
word : it sounded to me far off and yet loud, like a hail 
through a speaking-trumpet. If he makes a row we are 
lost, I thought to myself. This clearly was not a case 
for fisticuffs, even apart from the very natural aversion 
I had to beat that Shadow — this wandering and tor- 
mented thing. ' You will be lost, ' I said — ' utterly 
lost.' One gets sometimes such a flash of inspiration, 
you know. I did say the right thing, though indeed he 
could not have been more irretrievably lost than he was 
at this very moment, when the foundations of our inti- 
macy were being laid — to endure — to endure — even 
to the end — even beyond. 

"■'I had immense plans,' he muttered irresolutely. 
1 Yes,' said I; ' but if you try to shout I'll smash your 

head with ' there was not a stick or a stone near. 

* I will throttle you for good,' I corrected myself. ' I 
was on the threshold of great things,' he pleaded, in a 
voice of longing, with a wistfulness of tone that made 
my blood run cold. ' And now for this stupid scoun- 
drel ' ' Your success in Europe is assured in any 

case,' I affirmed, steadily. I did not want to have the 
throttling of him, you understand — and indeed it would 
have been very little use for any practical purpose. I 
tried to break the spell — the heavy, mute spell of the 

[429] 



THE SHORT STORY 



wilderness — that seemed to draw him to its pitiless 
breast by the awakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, 
by the memory of gratified and monstrous passions. 
This alone, I was convinced, had driven him out to the 
edge of the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of fires, 
the throb of drums, the drone of weird incantations; 
this alone had beguiled his unlawful soul beyond the 
bounds of permitted aspirations. And, don't you see, 
the terror of the position was not in being knocked on 
the head — though I had a very lively sense of that 
danger, too — but in this, that I had to deal with a being 
to whom I could not appeal in the name of anything 
high or low. I had, even like the niggers, to invoke him 
— himself — his own exalted and incredible degradation. 
There was nothing either above or below him, and I knew 
it. He had kicked himself loose of the earth. Con- 
found the man ! he had kicked the very earth to pieces. 
He was alone, and I before him did not know whether I 
stood on the ground or floated in the air. I've been 
telling you what we said — repeating the phrases we 
pronounced — but what's the good? They were com- 
mon everyday words — the familiar, vague sounds 
exchanged on every waking day of life. But what of 
that? They had behind them, to my mind, the terrific 
suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, of phrases 
spoken in nightmares. Soul! If anybody had ever 
struggled with a soul, I am the man. And I wasn't 
arguing with a lunatic either. Believe me or not, his 
intelligence was perfectly clear — concentrated, it is 
true, upon himself with horrible intensity, yet clear; 
and therein was my only chance — barring, of course, 
the killing him there and then, which wasn't so good, on 

[430] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



account of unavoidable noise. But his soul was mad. 
Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself, 
and, by heavens ! I tell you, it had gone mad. I had — - 
for my sins, I suppose — to go through the ordeal of 
looking into it myself. No eloquence could have been 
so withering to one 's belief in mankind as his final burst 
of sincerity. He struggled with himself, too. I saw 
it — I heard it. I saw the inconceivable mystery of a 
! soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, yet 
j struggling blindly with itself. I kept my head pretty 
l well ; but when I had him at last stretched on the couch, 
I wiped my forehead, while my legs shook under me as 
though I had carried half a ton on my back down that 
hill. And yet I had only supported him, his bony arm 
clasped round my neck — and he was not much heavier 
than a child. 

1 l When next day we left at noon, the crowd, of whose 
presence behind the curtain of trees I had been acutely 
conscious all the time, flowed out of the woods again, 
filled the clearing, covered the slope with a mass of naked, 
breathing, quivering, bronze bodies. I steamed up a bit, 
then swung down-stream, and two thousand eyes fol- 
lowed the evolutions of the splashing, thumping, fierce 
river-demon beating the water with its terrible tail and 
breathing black smoke into the air. In front of the first 
rank, along the river, three men, plastered with bright 
red earth from head to foot, strutted to and fro rest- 
lessly. When we came abreast again, they faced the 
river, stamped their feet, nodded their horned heads, 
swayed their scarlet bodies ; they shook towards the fierce 
river-demon a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin 
with a pendent tail — something that looked like a dried 

[431] 



THE SHORT STORY 



gourd; they shouted periodically together strings of I 
amazing words that resembled no sounds of human 
language; and the deep murmurs of the crowd, inter-; 
rupted suddenly, were like the response of some satanic 
litany. \ 

' ' "We had carried Kurtz into the pilot-house : there 5 
was more air there. Lying on the couch, he stared 
through the open shutter. There was an eddy in the! 
mass of human bodies, and the woman with helmetedij 
head and tawny cheeks rushed out to the very brink of 
the stream. She put out her hands, shouted something, 
and all that wild mob took up the shout in a roaring ^ 
chorus of articulated, rapid, breathless utterance. 

* * * Do you understand this ? ' I asked. 

" He kept on looking out past me with fiery, longing* 
eyes, with a mingled expression of wistfulness and hate. 
He made no answer, but I saw a smile, a smile of inde- \ 
finable meaning, appear on his colorless lips that a [ 
moment after twitched convulsively. ' Do I not f ' he L 
said slowly, gasping, as if the words had been torn out j 
of him by a supernatural power. 

" I pulled the string of the whistle, and I did this 
because I saw the pilgrims on deck getting out their 
rifles with an air of anticipating a jolly lark. At the 
sudden screech there was a movement of abject terror | 
through that wedged mass of bodies. l Don't! don't! 
you frighten them away,' cried someone on deck discon- : 
solately. I pulled the string time after time. They : 
broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, they swerved, ) 
they dodged the flying terror of the sound. The three 
red chaps had fallen flat, face down on the shore, as 
though they had been shot dead. Only the barbarous and 

[432] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



superb woman did not so much as flinch, and stretched 
tragically her bare arms after us over the somber and 
glittering river. 

" And then that imbecile crowd down on the deck 
started their little fun, and I could see nothing more for 
smoke. 

" The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of 
darkness, bearing us down towards the sea with twice 
•the speed of our upward progress; and Kurtz's life was 
| running swiftly, too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heart into 
the sea of inexorable time. The manager was very 
placid, he had no vital anxieties now, he took us both in 
with a comprehensive and satisfied glance : the * affair ' 
had come off as well as could be wished. I saw the time 
approaching when I would be left alone of the party of 
' unsound method.' The pilgrims looked upon me with 
disfavor. I was, so to speak, numbered with the dead. 
It is strange how I accepted this unforeseen partner- 
ship, this choice of nightmares forced upon me in the 
tenebrous land invaded by these mean and greedy phan- 
toms. 

' ' Kurtz discoursed. A voice ! a voice ! It rang deep 
to the very last. It survived his strength to hide in the 
magnificent folds of eloquence the barren darkness of 
his heart. Oh, he struggled ! he struggled ! The wastes 
of his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images 
now — images of wealth and fame revolving obsequiously 
round his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expres- 
sion. My Intended, my station, my career, my ideas — 
these were the subjects for the occasional utterances of 
elevated sentiments. The shade of the original Kurtz 
frequented the bedside of the hollow sham, whose fate 

[433] 



THE SHORT STORY 



it was to be buried presently in the mold of primeval 
earth. But both the diabolic love and the unearthly- 
hate of the mysteries it had penetrated fought for the 
possession of that soul satiated with primitive emotion, 
avid of lying fame, of sham distinction, of all the. 
appearances of success and power. 

' ' Sometimes he was contemptibly childish. He desired 
to have kings meet him at railway-stations on his return 
from some ghastly Nowhere, where he intended to accom- 
plish great things. ' You show them you have in you. 
something that is really profitable, and then there will 
be no limits to the recognition of your ability, ' he would j 
say. ' Of course you must take care of the motives - 
right motives — always.' The long reaches that were^ 
like one and the same reach, monotonous bends that were , 
exactly alike, slipped past the steamer with their multi- 
tude of secular trees looking patiently after this grimy 
fragment of another world, the forerunner of change, of 
conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings. I looked 
ahead — piloting. ' Close the shutter/ said Kurtz sud- 
denly one day ; * I can 't bear to look at this. ' I did so. . 
There was silence. * Oh, but I will wring your heart . 
yet ! ' he cried at the invisible wilderness. 

' ' We broke down — as I had expected — and had to 
lie up for repairs at the head of an island. This delay 
was the first thing that shook Kurtz's confidence. One 
morning he gave me a packet of papers and a photo- 
graph — the lot tied together with a shoe-string. ' Keep i 
this for me,' he said. ' This noxious fool ' (meaning the 
manager) ' is capable of prying into my boxes when I 
am not looking. ' In the afternoon I saw him. He was 
lying on his back with closed eyes, and I withdrew 

[434] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 

n ^ 

quietly, but I heard him mutter, l Live rightly, die, die 
. . . ' I listened. There was nothing more. Was 

I he rehearsing some speech in his sleep, or was it a frag- 
ment of a phrase from some newspaper article ? He had 

I been writing for the papers and meant to do so again, 
' for the furthering of my ideas. It's a duty.' 

1 i His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him 
as you peer down at a man who is lying at the bottom 
of a precipice where the sun never shines. But I had 
not much time to give him, because I was helping the 

| engine-driver to take to pieces the leaky cylinders, 
to straighten a bent connecting-rod, and in other such 
matters. I lived in an infernal mess of rust, filings, 
nuts, bolts, spanners, hammers, ratchet-drills — things I 
abominate, because I don't get on with them. I tended 

| the little forge we fortunately had aboard; I toiled 
wearily in a wretched scrap-heap — unless I had the 
shakes too bad to stand. 

" One evening coming in with a candle I was startled 
to hear him say a little tremulously, ' I am lying here in 
the dark waiting for death. ' The light was within a foot 
of his eyes. I forced myself to murmur, l Oh, non- 
sense ! ' and stood over him as if transfixed. 

" Anything approaching the change that came over 
his features I have never seen before, and hope never to 
see again. Oh, I wasn't touched. I was fascinated. It 
was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory 
face the expression of somber pride, of ruthless power, 

| of craven terror — of an intense and hopeless despair. 

| Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temp- 
tation, and surrender during that supreme moment of 

' complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some 

[435] 



THE SHORT STORY 



image, at some vision — he cried out twice, a cry that : 
was no more than a breath — 

" ' The horror! The horror! ' 

" I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pil- 
grims were dining in the mess-room, and I took my place 
opposite the manager, who lifted his eyes to give me a 
questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He 
leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his seal- 
ing the unexpressed depths of his meanness. A contin- 
uous shower of small flies streamed upon the lamp, upon 
the cloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the 
manager's boy put his insolent black head in the door- \ 
way, and said in a tone of scathing contempt — 

" * Mistah Kurtz — he dead.' 

11 All the pilgrims rushed out to see. I remained, and 
went on with my dinner. I believe I was considered 
brutally callous. However, I did not eat much. There , 
was a lamp in there — light, don't you know — and out- 
side it was so beastly, beastly dark. I went no more near 
the remarkable man who had pronounced a judgment 
upon the adventures of his soul on this earth. The voice 
was gone. What else had been there? But I am of 
course aware that next day the pilgrims buried some- 
thing in a muddy hole. 

11 And then they very nearly buried me. 

" However, as you see, I did not go to join Kurtz 
there and then. I did not. I remained to dream the 
nightmare out to the end, and to show my loyalty to 
Kurtz once more. Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing 
life is — that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic 
for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is 
some knowledge of yourself — that comes too late — a 

[ 436 ] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



i crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with 
death. It is the most unexciting contest you can 
I imagine. It takes place in an impalpable grayness, with 
nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spec- 
| tators, without clamor, without glory, without the great 
j desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a 
| sickly atmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much 
■ belief in your own right, and still less in that of your 
I adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then 
| life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be. I 
I was within a hair 's-breadth of the last opportunity for 
pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that proba- 
bly I would have nothing to say. This is the reason why 
I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had 
something to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over 
the edge myself, I understand better the meaning of his 
stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was 
wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing 
enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the dark- 
ness. He had summed up — he had judged. ' The hor- 
ror! ' He was a remarkable man. After all, this was 
the expression of some sort of belief; it had candor, it 
had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its 
whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth — 
the strange commingling of desire and hate. And it is 
not my own extremity I remember best — a vision of 
grayness without form filled with physical pain, and a 
careless contempt for the evanescence of all things — 
even of this pain itself. No ! It is his extremity that I 
seem to have lived through. True, he had made that 
last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had 
been permitted to draw back my hesitating foot. And 

[437] 



THE SHORT STORY 



perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the 
wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just com- 
pressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which 
we step over the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps ! I 
like to think my summing-up would not have been a 
word of careless contempt. Better his cry — much bet- 
ter. It was an affirmation, a moral victory paid for by 
innumerable defeats, by abominable terrors, by abomina- 
ble satisfactions. But it was a victory ! That is why I 
have remained loyal to Kurtz to the last, and even 
beyond, when a long time after I heard once more, not 
his own voice, but the echo of his magnificent eloquence 
thrown to me from a soul as translucently pure as a cliff 
of crystal. 

1 ' No, they did not bury me, though there is a period 
of time which I remember mistily, with a shuddering 
wonder, like a passage through some inconceivable world 
that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myself 
back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people 
hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from 
each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp 
their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and 
silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They 
were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an 
irritating pretense, because I felt so sure they could not 
possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which 
was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going 
about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, 
was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of 
folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. 
I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had 
some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in 

[438] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



i their faces, so full of stupid importance. I dare say 
I was not very well at that time. I tottered about the 
streets — there were various affairs to settle — grinning 
bitterly at perfectly respectable persons. I admit my 

I behavior was inexcusable, but then my temperature was 
seldom normal in these days. My dear aunt 's endeavors 
to ' nurse up my strength ' seemed altogether beside 
the mark. It was not my strength that wanted nursing, 

j it was my imagination that wanted soothing. I kept 

' the bundle of papers given me by Kurtz, not knowing 
exactly what to do with it. His mother had died lately, 
watched over, as I was told, by his Intended. A clean- 
shaved man, with an official manner and wearing gold- 
rimmed spectacles, called on me one day and made 
inquiries, at first circuitous, afterwards suavely press- 
ing, about what he was pleased to denominate certain 
' documents. ' I was not surprised, because I had had 
two rows with the manager on the subject out there. I 
had refused to give up the smallest scrap out of that 
package, and I took the same attitude with the spectacled 
man. He became darkly menacing at last, and with 
much heat argued that the Company had the right to 
every bit of information about its ' territories.' And, 
said he, ' Mr. Kurtz's knowledge of unexplored regions 
must have been necessarily extensive and peculiar — 
owing to his great abilities and to the deplorable cir- 
cumstances in which he had been placed: therefore ' 

1 assured him Mr. Kurtz's knowledge, however 

extensive, did not bear upon the problems of commerce 
or administration. He invoked then the name of science. 
* It would be an incalculable loss if, ' etc., etc. I offered 
him the report on the ' Suppression of Savage Customs,' 

[439] 



THE SHORT STORY 



with the postscriptum torn off. He took it up eagerly, 
but ended by sniffing at it with an air of contempt. 
1 This is not what we had a right to expect, ' he remarked. 
' Expect nothing else,' I said. ' There are only private 
letters.' He withdrew upon some threat of legal pro- 
ceedings, and I saw him no more; but another fellow, 
calling himself Kurtz's cousin, appeared two days later, 
and was anxious to hear all the details about his dear 
relative's last moments. Incidentally he gave me to 
understand that Kurtz had been essentially a great 
musician. * There was the making of an immense suc- 
cess,' said the man, who was an organist, I believe, with 
lank gray hair flowing over a greasy coat-collar. I had 
no reason to doubt his statement ; and to this day I am 
unable to say what was Kurtz's profession, whether he 
ever had any — which was the greatest of his talents. 
I had taken him for a painter who wrote for the papers, 
or else for a journalist who could paint — but even the 
cousin (who took snuff during the interview) could not 
tell me what he had been — exactly. He was a univer- 
sal genius — on that point I agreed with the old chap, 
who thereupon blew his nose noisily into a large cotton 
handkerchief and withdrew in senile agitation, bearing 
off some family letters and memoranda without impor- 
tance. Ultimately a journalist anxious to know some- 
thing of the fate of his * dear colleague ' turned up. 
This visitor informed me Kurtz's proper sphere ought 
to have been politics ' on the popular side.' He had 
furry straight eyebrows, bristly hair cropped short, an 
eye-glass on a broad ribbon, and, becoming expansive, 
confessed his opinion that Kurtz really couldn't write 
a bit — ' but heavens ! how that man could talk ! He 

[440] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



j 

j electrified large meetings. He had faith — don't you 

! see ? — he had the faith. He could get himself to believe 

| anything — anything. He would have been a splendid 

leader of an extreme party.' i What party? ' I asked. 

| * Any party, ' answered the other. ' He was an — an — 

extremist.' Did I not think so? I assented. Did I 

know, he asked, with a sudden flash of curiosity, ' what 

it was that had induced him to go out there? ' i Yes,' 

said I, and forthwith handed him the famous Report for 

publication, if he thought fit. He glanced through it 

hurriedly, mumbling all the time, judged ' it would do,' 

and took himself off with this plunder. 

" Thus I was left at last with a slim packet of letters 
and the girl's portrait. She struck me as beautiful — 
I mean she had a beautiful expression. I know that the 
sunlight can be made to lie, too, yet one felt that no 
manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed the 
delicate shade of truthfulness upon those features. She 
seemed ready to listen without mental reservation, with- 
out suspicion, without a thought for herself. I con- 
cluded I would go and give her back her portrait and 
those letters myself. Curiosity? Yes; and also some 
other feeling perhaps. All that had been Kurtz's had 
passed out of my hands : his soul, his body, his station, 
his plans, his ivory, his career. There remained only 
his memory and his Intended — and I wanted to give 
that up, too, to the past, in a way — to surrender per- 
sonally all that remained of him with me to that oblivion 
which is the last word of our common fate. I don't 
defend myself. I had no clear perception of what it was 
I really wanted. Perhaps it was an impulse of uncon- 
scious loyalty, or the fulfilment of one of these ironic 

[441] 



THE SHORT STORY 



necessities that lurk in the facts of human existence. I 
don't know. I can't tell. But I went. 

" I thought his memory was like the other memories 
of the dead that accumulate in every man's life — a 
vague impress on the brain of shadows that had fallen 
on it in their swift and final passage; but before the 
high and ponderous door, between the tall houses of a 
street as still and decorous as a well-kept alley in a 
cemetery, I had a vision of him on the stretcher, opening 
his mouth voraciously, as if to devour all the earth with 
all its mankind. He lived then before me; he lived as 
much as he had ever lived — a shadow insatiable of 
splendid appearances, of frightful realities; a shadow 
darker than the shadow of the night, and draped nobly 
in the folds of a gorgeous eloquence. The vision seemed 
to enter the house with me — the stretcher, the phantom- 
bearers, the wild crowd of obedient worshipers, the 
gloom of the forests, the glitter of the reach between the 
murky bends, the beat of the drum, regular and muffled 
like the beating of a heart — the heart of a conquering 
darkness. It was a moment of triumph for the wilder- 
ness, an invading and vengeful rush which, it seemed to 
me, I would have to keep back alone for the salvation of 
another soul. And the memory of what I had heard him 
say afar there, with the horned shapes stirring at my 
back, in the glow of fires, within the patient woods, those 
broken phrases came back to me, were heard again in 
their ominous and terrifying simplicity. I remembered 
his abject pleading, his abject threats, the colossal scale 
of his vile desires, the meanness, the torment, the tem- 
pestuous anguish of his soul. And later on I seemed to 
see his collected languid manner, when he said one day, 

[442] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



! This lot of ivory now is really mine. The Company 
did not pay for it. I collected it myself at a very great 
personal risk. I am afraid they will try to claim it as 
theirs though. H'm. It is a difficult case. What do 
you think I ought to do — resist ? Eh ? I want no more 
than justice.' . . . He wanted no more than justice 
— no more than justice. I rang the bell before a 
mahogany door on the first floor, and while I waited he 
seemed to stare at me out of the glassy panel — stare 
with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemn- 
ing, loathing all the universe. I seemed to hear the 
whispered cry, ' The horror! The horror! ' 

* * The dusk was falling. I had to wait in a lofty draw- 
ing-room with three long windows from floor to ceiling 
that were like three luminous and bedraped columns. 
The bent gilt legs and backs of the furniture shone in 
indistinct curves. The tall marble fireplace had a cold 
and monumental whiteness. A grand piano stood mas- 
sively in a corner, with dark gleams on the flat surfaces 
like a somber and polished sarcophagus. A high door 
opened — closed. I rose. 

" She came forward, all in black, with a pale head, 
floating towards me in the dusk. She was in mourning. 
It was more than a year since his death, more than a 
year since the news came; she seemed as though she 
would remember and mourn forever. She took both my 
hands in hers and murmured, ' I had heard you were 
coming/ I noticed she was not very young — I mean 
not girlish. She had a mature capacity for fidelity, 
for belief, for suffering. The room seemed to have grown 
darker, as if all the sad light of the cloudy evening had 
taken refuge on her forehead. This fair hair, this pale 

[443] 



THE SHORT STORY 



visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded by an ashy 
halo from which the dark eyes looked out at me. Their 
glance was guileless, profound, confident, and trustful, i 
She carried her sorrowful head as though she were proud 
of that sorrow, as though she would say, I — I alone 
know how to mourn for him as he deserves. But while j 
we were still shaking hands, such a look of awful desola- 
tion came upon her face that I perceived she was one of 
those creatures that are not the playthings of Time. For 
her he had died only yesterday. And, by Jove! the 
impression was so powerful that for me, too, he seemed 
to have died only yesterday — nay, this very minute. I 
saw her and him in the same instant of time — his death 
and her sorrow — I saw her sorrow in the very moment 
of his death. Do you understand? I saw them together 
— I heard them together. She had said, with a deep 
catch of the breath, l I have survived ; ' while my strained 
ears seemed to hear distinctly, mingled with her tone of 
despairing regret, the summing-up whisper of his eternal 
condemnation. I asked myself what I was doing there, 
with a sensation of panic in my heart as though I had 
blundered into a place of cruel and absurd mysteries not 
fit for a human being to behold. She motioned me to a 
chair. We sat down. I laid the packet gently on the 
little table, and she put her hand over it. ... * You 
knew him well, ' she murmured, after a moment of mourn- 
ing silence. 

" ' Intimacy grows quick out there,' I said. ' I knew 
him as well as it is possible for one man to know another. ' 

" ' And you admired him,' she said. ' It was impos- 
sible to know him and not to admire him. Was it ? ' 

" ' He was a remarkable man,' I said, unsteadily. 
[444] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



I Then before the appealing fixity of her gaze, that seemed 
to watch for more words on my lips, I went on, ' It was 

j impossible not to ' 

" ' Love him/ she finished eagerly, silencing me into 
| an appalled dumbness. ' How true ! how true ! But 
| when you think that no one knew him so well as I ! I 
! had all his noble confidence. I knew him best. ' 

' ' ' You knew him best, ' I repeated. And perhaps she 

I did. But with every word spoken the room was growing 

| darker, and only her forehead, smooth and white, re- 

j mained illumined by the unextinguishable light of belief 

and love. 

■ ' ' You were his friend, ' she went on. ' His friend, ' 
she repeated, a little louder. ' You must have been, if 
he had given you this, and sent you to me. I feel I 
can speak to you — and oh ! I must speak. I want you 
— ■ you who have heard his last words — to know I have 
been worthy of him. . . . It is not pride. . . . 
Yes ! I am proud to know I understood him better than 
anyone on earth — he told me so himself. And since his 

mother died I have had no one — no one — to — to ' 

" I listened. The darkness deepened. I was not even 
sure whether he had given me the right bundle. I rather 
suspect he wanted me to take care of another batch of 
his papers which, after his death, I saw the manager 
examining under the lamp. And the girl talked, easing 
her pain in the certitude of my sympathy ; she talked as 
thirsty men drink. I had heard that her engagement 
with Kurtz had been disapproved by her people. He 
wasn't rich enough or something. And indeed I don't 
know whether he had not been a pauper all his life. He 
had given me some reason to infer that it was his im- 

[445] 



THE SHORT STORY 



patience of comparative poverty that drove him out 
there. 

' ' ' . . . "Who was not his friend who had heard him 
speak once? ' she was saying. ' He drew men towards 
him by what was best in them/ She looked at me with 
intensity. ' It is the gift of the great,' she went on, 
and the sound of her low voice seemed to have the ac- 
companiment of all the other sounds, full of mystery, 
desolation, and sorrow, I had ever heard — the ripple of 
the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by the wind, 
the murmurs of wild crowds, the faint ring of incom- 
prehensible words cried from afar, the whisper of a 
voice speaking from beyond the threshold of an eternal 
darkness. ' But you have heard him ! You know ! ' she 
cried. 

" ' Yes, I know,' I said with something like despair 
in my heart, but bowing my head before the faith that 
was in her, before that great and saving illusion that 
shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, in the 
triumphant darkness from which I could not have de- 
fended her — from which I could not even defend my- 
self. 

1 ' ' What a loss to me — to us \ ' — she corrected her- 
self with beautiful generosity ; then added in a murmur, 
1 To the world.' By the last gleams of twilight I could 
see the glitter of her eyes, full of tears — of tears that 
would not fall. 

" ' I have been very happy — very fortunate — very 
proud,' she went on. l Too fortunate. Too happy for 
a little while. And now I am unhappy for — for life. ' 

1 ' She stood up ; her fair hair seemed to catch all the 
remaining light in a glimmer of gold. I rose too. 

[446] 



HEART OF DARKNESS 



" ' And of all this,' she went on, mournfully, ' of all 
his promise, and of all his greatness, of his generous 
mind, of his noble heart, nothing remains — nothing but 
a memory. You and I ' 

" ' We shall always remember him,' I said, hastily. 

1 ' ' No ! ' she cried. ' It is impossible that all this 
should be lost — that such a life should be sacrificed to 
leave nothing — but sorrow. You know what vast plans 
he had. I knew of them too — I could not perhaps 
understand — but others knew of them. Something must 
remain. His words, at least, have not died. ' 

1 ' l His words will remain, ' I said. 

" l And his example/ she whispered to herself. ' Men 
looked up to him — his goodness shone in every act. His 
example ' 

" ' True,' I said; ' his example too. Yes, his example. 
I forgot that. ' 

1 ' ' But I do not. I cannot — I cannot believe — not 
yet. I cannot believe that I shall never see him again, 
that nobody will see him again, never, never, never. ' 

' ' She put out her arms as if after a retreating figure, 
stretching them back and with clasped pale hands across 
the fading and narrow sheen of the window. Never see 
him! I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this 
eloquent phantom as long as I live, and I shall see her 
too, a tragic and familiar Shade, resembling in this ges- 
ture another one, tragic also, and bedecked with power- 
less charms, stretching bare brown arms over the glitter 
of the infernal stream, the stream of darkness. She said 
suddenly very low, ' He died as he lived. ' 

" ' His end,' said I, with dull anger stirring in me, 
' was in every way worthy of his life.' 

[447] 



THE SHORT STORY 



" ' And I was not with him,' she murmured. My 
anger subsided before a feeling of infinite pity. 

" l Everything that could be done ' I mumbled. 

" ' Ah, but I believed in him more than anyone on L 
earth — more than his own mother, more than — him- 
self. He needed me ! Me ! I would have treasured every ; 
sigh, every word, every sign, every glance/ 

" I felt a chill grip my chest. ' Don't.' I said, in a \ 
muffled voice. 

1 ' ' Forgive me. I — I — have mourned so long in 
silence — in silence. . . . You were with him — to 
the last? I think of his loneliness. Nobody near to r 
understand him as I would have understood. Perhaps - 
no one to hear. . . . ' 

" ' To the very end,' I said, shakily. l I heard his ■/ 
very last words. . . . ' I stopped in a fright. 

" ' Repeat them/ she said in a heart-broken tone. * I } 
want — I want — something — something — to — to live 
with.' 

' ' I was on the point of crying at her, ' Don 't you hear 
them? ' The dusk was repeating them in a persistent 
whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swell 
menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. ' The 
horror ! the horror ! ' 

11 l His last word — to live with,' she murmured. 
* Don 't you understand I loved him — I loved him — I 
loved him ! ' 

' ' I pulled myself together and spoke slowly. 

" ' The last word he pronounced was — your name.' 

" I heard a light sigh, and then my heart stood still, 
stopped dead short by an exulting and terrible cry, by 
the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable 

[448] 






HEART OF DARKNESS 



pain. ' I knew it — I was sure ! ' . . . She knew. 
She was sure. I heard her weeping ; she had hidden her 
face in her hands. It seemed to me that the house would 
collapse before I could escape, that the heavens would 
fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The 
heavens do not fall for such a trifle. Would they have 
fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz that justice 
which was his due ? Hadn't he said he wanted only jus- 
tice? But I couldn't. I could not tell her. It would 
I have been too dark — too dark altogether. . . . " 
Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in 
the pose of a meditating Buddha. Nobody moved for a 
time. ' ' We have lost the first of the ebb, ' ' said the Di- 
rector, suddenly. I raised my head. The offing was 
barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil water- 
way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed 
somber under an overcast sky — seemed to lead into the 
heart of an immense darkness. 



[449] 



MARTHA'S FIREPLACE * 
By Hamlin Garland 



For twenty years Hamlin Garland has been a recognized 
interpreter of the Middle West in American fiction. His 
principal medium of expression is the novel, but he made his 
early reputation with a series of realistic short stories pub- 
lished in the volume entitled Main Traveled Roads. These ' 
are serious stories depicting farm and village life on the ] 
prairies of Iowa and in the coolies of Wisconsin. Mr. Garland J 
was born at West Salem, Wisconsin, in 1860. At present he 
divides his time between his home in Chicago and his summer 
home at West Salem. Among Mr. Garland's notable publica- 
tions may be mentioned the following: Main Traveled Roads, 
1890; Rose of Butcher's Coolly, 1895; Prairie Folks, 1900 
The Captain of the Gray Horse Troop, 1902; Hesper, 1903 
The Shadow World, 1908; Cavanagh, Forest Ranger, 1911 
and A Son of the Middle Border, 1914. Martha's Fireplace 
was written in 1905 but its spirit and tone are similar to the 
earlier stories of the Main Traveled Roads series. 

Stephen Thurber had no notion of falling in with a 
great sociologic movement when he decided to sell his 
farm in Wet Coolly and move into Bluff Siding; he 
merely yielded to the importunities of his wife and 
daughter, who looked away to the prim little village 
down the valley as a shining land of leisure and of possi- 
ble social triumph. 

It was a lonely place for the women — that Stephen 
generously admitted. A long ridge, some five hundred 

* Copyrighted. Reprinted by permission of the author. 
[450] 



MARTHA'S FIREPLACE 



I feet high, cut them off from the railway, and all the 
young people were leaving, by twos and threes as fast 
j as they grew up, and the roads were very bad, and visi- 
tors few. 

So at last he sighed and said, ' ' All right, mother, we '11 
j go, but I '11 declare I hate to give up the farm — I don 't 
! know what in time 1 11 do with myself. ' ' 

He sold the place soon afterward for a sum which 

! seemed enormous to his wife, and bought a naked, 

i angular little ' ' wing house, ' ' which occupied a fifty foot 

I lot on one of the new streets in Bluff Siding. It was 

painted in blue and pink, stood indecently close to the 

board-walk, and it had only a half-dozen elms the size 

of broomsticks to shield it from the sun and wind. ' ' The 

parlor is skursely large enough to contain the family, let 

| alone company, ' ' Stephen sighf ully remarked ; ' ' but if 

it suits you women, it suits me." 

He seemed quite cheerful about it at the time, but the 

old farm looked so much more comfortable, so much more 

home-like on his return, that his heart failed him. The 

dignity, the amplitude of the buildings overwhelmed him 

with joy and pride — and sorrow. Every tree about the 

yard he had planted — some of them while Martha (his 

first wife and his first love) stood by to watch him tramp 

the earth about their roots. ' Now they rose far, far above 

the roof, like guardian soldiers, faithful and strong. 

Their branches had come to be like hands upraised in 

! blessing in summer — like warding spear points in 

j winter. Even the phloxes and the lilacs of the lawn were 

! descendents of those his first love had planted. 

And the house ! How broad and generous and homey 
! it seemed in contrast with that trig little town cottage. 

[451] 



L 



THE SHORT STORY 



He had built it for Martha in the flush of prosperity 
which followed the great Civil War, and it still remained 
the most imposing dwelling in Wet Coolly. It was a big, 
square frame building, New England in type, and had 
a fine, old-fashioned fireplace in the sitting-room — the 
only fireplace in the township, so far as he knew. 

This curious " notion," this singular extravagance, 
had made the Thurber place renowned throughout the 
entire county. To have had a fireplace left over from 
pioneer days would have been excusable ; but to put one 
in a new house was considered an act of folly lying just 
this side of dementia. Nevertheless, all the carpers came 
again and again to toast their shins in its glow, and the 
young folks were unanimous in their praise of it. They 
flocked to its blaze on winter nights with joy, and many a 
lively dance ended an evening of unforgetable cheer in 
its hospitable shine. 

The mantle, as Martha loved to tell, had been carved 
by her grandfather and came from the old homestead in 
the State of Maine. She loved it for its associations, 
and in that love had taken it from its place in the Kitt- 
redge homestead and brought it West as a kind shrine 
or family totem. She had brought also the ancient and- 
irons, the tongs and the shovel ; even the old crane, almost 
as dear as the mantle, had been set in and completed her 
equipment. 

Stephen, now that he was about to lose his treasures, 
recalled Martha 's delight as she watched the workmen set 
the old oaken slab in its place. He re-lived the party 
she gave when the first fire was laid, and thrilled to 
remember how pretty she looked as she touched a match 
to the shavings and recited a little verse from The Hang- 

[452] 



MARTHA'S FIREPLACE 



' ing of the Crane. She was cheerful and, Stephen 
; believed, happy ; but when she went away he began to 
: realize that she had never really taken root in the West, 
! and now that he was growing old, he himself began to 
j dwell more and more in the land of his youth. His 
| thoughts returned often to his rocky New Hampshire 
| intervale. 

Yes, it was hardest of all to loose the tendrils of his 
| heart from the hearth, for though Serilla had rearranged 
| and redecorated after her own heart, Martha's fireplace 
| remained unchanged. 

" I'll let you have your way in most things, Serilly, 
but I want this room to look as it does now, just as she 
left it." 

As the time for the migration drew near, Stephen stole 
away from the disordered kitchen to muse sadly be- 
fore the fire. He had consented to a " vandue," and 
was willing Serilla should sell all the furniture they 
had, except a few pieces that had been Martha's, and 
as there was no demand for the irons and brasses 
around the fireplace, he expected to box them up as 



The new owner was to take possession on the first of 
April, and so on the last day of March (a cold, gray 
day), having parted with all his live-stock, and the larger 
number of his implements, Stephen Thurber, after nearly 
forty years of life on his Coolly farm, took solemn leave 
of the trees he had planted, the barns he had built and 
the house which had been Martha's. The last thing he 
did before leaving was to visit the empty living-room, 
where his last fire was still blazing on the hearth. ' I 
want to leave the room bright and warm, anyhow," he 

[453] 



THE SHORT STORY 



said to his wife and daughter. " I don't want to remem- 
ber it all cold and dark. ' ' 

* ' Good gracious ! You talk as you were going away a 
thousand miles, ' ' exclaimed his wife. 

* i I never expect to see the inside of that house again, ' ' 
he said, with a pathos too deep for her to comprehend. 

The cottage in town seemed to grow smaller after they 
moved into it ; but Serilla and Cariss were delighted with 
its snugness, and went about extolling its * * advantages ' ' 
with fluent tongues. " It's small, of course; but what 
do we want with a big house? It's just that much less 
work to take care of. Besides, here we have a pump right 
in the kitchen, and a furnace, and a bath room, and every- 
thing is as neat as a pin — no cracks or dark corners. ' ' 

" I kind o' like dark corners," said Stephen. He 
felt its lack of hominess ; but could not otherwise express 
it. 

For the first month he was busy getting feed and other 
necessaries down from the farm. " By jocks, I never 
thought I 'd have to cross that hill so many times during 
my whole natural course of life," he said to his family, 
and each trip left him gloomier, and at last he sent a 
hired teamster. " I can't go it again," he explained, 
bitterly; " it makes me sick to see that sloven spoil the 
place. He hain't cleaned up the lawn, and he's fencing 
off a part of the orchard for his pigs. ' ' This was like the 
desecration of an altar to him, but he said no more about 
it. During May he spent a good deal of time in his 
little seven-by-twelve garden, and in taking care of his 
little red barn, all of which seemed like a joke, like play- 
ing farmer. " Makes me feel as if I'd come back to 
second childhood, by jocks if it don't; and that truck- 

[454] 



MARTHA'S FIREPLACE 



patch o ' mine — well, if the cat should get loose she 'd 

! eat up the whole bilin' mess of it. It's so little I hate 

to step on it — feel like puttin ' it in the barn nights. ' ' 

By June he was settled into a certain daily groove. 

| " You want to just lay back and rest," said Hiram 

Fox, another veteran of the plow; " that's what the rest 

of us are doin', an' we're doin' it conscientiously. The 

; town is full of ' tired farmers ' like us. ' ' 

And sure enough, as Stephen began to comprehend his 
neighbors, he found himself surrounded by a score or 
more of gnarled old grubbers like himself, men who 
knew how to swing the axe, the cradle, and the scythe, 
pioneers who had uprooted the great oaks of the hill- 
sides and ripped the sod of the meadow into strips in 
order to sow their wheat — men whose muscles had once 
been as steel bands and whose hearts were still the hearts 
of warriors. They were all old now, old and weather- 
worn, and heavy and slow, and taking their ease he- 
roically while their work-bent wives fussed about their 
houses in a sort of automatic frenzy, toiling to pass the 
long days of summer, rising early to make the nights 
of winter short. They mostly lived as lonely couples, for 
their sons and daughters, impatient of the narrow oppor- 
tunities and the slow round of life in the valley, had 
gone to the city or to the farther West. 

Stephen, without knowing it, was passing through 
precisely the same phases, computing the same problems. 
For one thing, he could not break himself of the habit 
of early rising. He lay awake so long and so still each 
morning that his bones ached, and when he could endure 
the strain no longer, he slipped out of bed, built the fire, 
put on the teakettle for his wife, and filled the bucket 

[455] 



THE SHORT STORY 



with water before going to feed his horse. Even then, 
upon his return to the house he often found the kettle 
boiling away and no one astir. Sometimes he went to 
milk their meek little cow, and had time to take her to 
the pasture before breakfast was even a prophecy. All 
this was mighty discouraging, for the days were long 
even after his coffee. 

Breakfast over, he made as much work as possible 
watering the horse and feeding his ten chickens, and [ 
then — was stumped ! There was nothing to do, nothing 
to oversee, no one to " boss/' and no soul to talk to 
around the place, for the women were busy with their 
own affairs and apparently quite contented. 

For all these reasons he soon fell into the habit of 
" going up street " like the other " time-killers, ' ' to see 
what was going on. 

The Chicago mail got in at ten, bringing the morning 
papers, and the post-office swarmed with the slow-moving 
gray-beards, all jocularly reviling each other about their 
lazy bones and rheumatic joints. 

"I'd be ashamed to loaf around town the way you 
fellows do," Pilcher would say. " Here's corn-plantin ' 
in full drive ; beautiful weather, too, and you boys hang- 
in' around town. I bet you didn't, any one o' you, have 
breakfast this morning till long after sun-up." 

Or again Hiram would say, " Hello, Steve, why ain't 
you out in the meadow with your scythe this morning? 
Timothy is just in the purple. ' ' 

Then Stephen would reply, " Remember the time I 
hired you to help me put up hay on my north field ? By 
jocks, that was a hot neck o' the woods. I laid you under 
a bush that day." 

[456] 



MARTHA'S FIREPLACE 



" Yes, you did! I see you now, flat on your back, 
under that wild plum tree, pantin' like a lizard on a hot 
log." 

In this way they followed the seasons, and in imagina- 
tion took part in the farm duties, bragging with hearty 
frankness of what they were able once to do — in those 
far days when the land was new and they were all young. 
Each man listened patiently to the other, for their tales 
were faithful to the fact. They had truly been giants in 
those days. 

The half -jocular, half -serious greetings over, they 
talked quite animatedly concerning the price of pork and 
cream, or touched lightly (and with decent respect) upon 
each other's political prejudices, and when the mail was 
distributed, each man put his paper under his arm, 
together with a parcel of steak for dinner, and trudged 
away homeward, intent on a certain easy chair beside a 
chosen window, where the light fell pleasantly, just of 
the right mind to enjoy the reflected tumult of the far- 
off wars and conflagrations of the outer world. 

Stephen's cosy corner was in the sitting-room beside 
the west window, and his chair (one he had bought for 
Martha when she was ill the first time) was a plain old 
piece of walnut and cane, deep-seated and comfortable, 
which no one else presumed to sit in. He was firm on 
that point, and he insisted also on having a little table 
to himself on which his papers and his spectacles always 
lay ready to hand when he came from the garden or the 
street. 

He generally took an hour for his paper ; but this left 
some forty minutes to be filled in before dinner. Most 
of the veterans took naps at this hour, but Stephen had 

[457] 



THE SHORT STORY 



never been able to sleep in the middle of the day, so he 
usually went out and wandered around the garden, 
coddling the plants till he was on speaking terms with 
every potato blossom and beet top within his enclosure. 
These forty minutes were like hours to him, for his appe- 
tite was prodigious. 

After dinner on pleasant days he hitched up his horse 
and drove about the country lanes. Serilla was always 
too busy to go, and Cariss considered it " slow." So he 
often took some crony, and together they jogged from 
farm to farm, following the progress of the crops, end- 
lessly discussing the " left-handed way " in which the 
Germans did their work. 

After these trips he usually tinkered around the house 
and re-read his paper till his eyes ached, and then, tired 
and sad, sat down to ponder the past with an occasional 
wistful, uneasy glimpse into the future. He began to 
wonder what it all meant, this life here on earth, for 
his was a deep and tender soul, sweet and kindly, holding 
something of the poet in solution. He both loved and 
feared the magic of these dreams of the past. As the 
nights lengthened, and the cold deepened he began to 
definitely long for the old fireplace. He mused much on 
the joy he used to feel as he came in from corn husking 
or rail splitting, wet and cold, to find the fire blazing on 
the hearth in the old log house. He minutely re-lived the 
days when the crane was newly hung and Martha sat 
beside him in the glow of the embers, her hand in his, 
while they spoke lovingly of the two little ones that died 
before they could speak. 

He recalled her sickness and shuddered at the remem- 
bered loneliness of the old house after her death. Then 

[458] 



MARTHA'S FIREPLACE 



Serilla came, and later two robust sons. How they loved 
' the old hearth, on which they were content to bask like 
; puppies, snuggling against his feet, asking for more 
! bear stories. The winters of that far time were made as 
j cheery as summers by the blaze of the hearth, and the 
; roar of the branches outside carried no chill to his 
! heart. 

As he awoke from such a dream and looked around 
j Serilla 's sitting-room, Stephen wondered what Martha 
| would say of it. He began to consider how much a fire- 
place would mean to him ; he even went so far as to slyly 
measure between the two west windows to see if one 
could not be set in, but the space was too narrow for 
anything but a hard-coal grate, and this he despised. 

Sometimes at night, when his wife thought him dozing, 
he was really back in the old Coolly house watching the 
blazing logs, his mind filled with a delicious sadness, his 
eyes wet with tears. What was it that had gone out of 
his life? Here he sat in a perfectly comfortable room, 
possessing a horse and a carriage, with an abundance to 
eat and no cares — and yet the past, with all its toil, so 
called to him that his throat ached at the thought of it. 
Oh, if he could only re-live it all ! 

In those dear days the wind was fierce, the woods of 
winter desolate; but Martha's face shone like a star, and 
the old hearth rendered each night with his children a 
poem. Work was hard in those days ; but rest was sweet. 
Hunger was keen; but eating brought no illness in its 
train. 

He was loyal to Serilla, the mother of his children ; but 
Martha was the wife of his youth, the one chosen wholly 
of his heart — and her fireplace came to typify all that 

[459] 



THE SHORT STORY 



was sweetest and most poetic in his life and in the lives 
of his children. It was an altar. Around it they had 
gathered when the corn was cribbed and the cattle housed 
for the night. In its light they had danced when the 
threshing was over and at Thanksgiving time. 

He awoke with a start to the present. 

" What will we do on Thanksgiving Day and at Christ- 
mas ? " he asked, one night. ' ' We can 't all get into this 
little box of a place. There ain't a room in the house we 
can all sit down in, and if we could, we'd have nothing 
but the floor to look at. I declare it clean disheartens 
me." 

Serilla was a little dashed, but replied, comfortably, 
' ' We '11 manage somehow, I guess. We can 't have but a 
part of the children at a time, that's all. We can bid 
your folks for Thanksgiving and my folks for Christ- 
mas." 

This rankled in Stephen's mind, and thereafter he 
despised his toy house. It was a good enough tenement 
— a place to rent for awhile, but as a home in which to 
grow old, it was revolting in spite of its shining paint and 
spick and span new furniture. 

In reality it held out no charm, no poetry, no associa- 
tions; it was as rectangular as a dry-goods box, and as 
hopelessly prosaic as a " golden oak " wash-stand. A 
child born in such a house is cheated out of its birthright 
of dim, wide rooms lit up by the dancing firelight ; robbed 
of the sagas the great trees chant as they roar outside in 
the wild wind — deprived of all shadow, all suggestion. 
Something of this flitted through Stephen's thought, 
though he could not give it voice. 

" Mother," he said one day, " I wish we had one 

[460] 






MARTHA'S FIREPLACE 



I room big enough to turn round in, and a rag carpet and 
some old-fashioned chairs and a fireplace — " 

' * There you go again about that fireplace, ' ' exclaimed 
his wife irritably. '■* Nobody has fireplaces now, and 
| how are you going to have a big room in this house ? ' ' 

1 ' I '11 build one, if you say so. ' ' 

" Nonsense. This house is all right, plenty big enough 

! for us — with Cariss likely to go off any minute. And 

1 as for Thanksgiving and Christmas, we can go to the 

hotel and get dinner, or take 'em in squads here at 

home. ' ' 

" That wouldn't do," he protested. " It wouldn't do 
at all. It wouldn 't seem natural or right for us to go to 
a hotel on such days. "We'd ought 'o have all such meals 
at home." 

" Well, you wouldn't build a big house just to use 
for Thanksgiving, would you? " 

" I d'know but I would," he answered, sturdily. " I 
d'know but it would be just about as good a way to 
spend our money as any other. I'm sick o' this little 
coop. Let's buy the Merrill place and have room to 
dance a jig if we want to." 

" No, sirree! You don' ketch me livin' on the edge 
of town, with no sidewalks. I want to be right in the 
center of things, where we can have our telephone, 'lectric 
lights an' all." 

" I could put in the telephone — " 

" I won't hear of it, Steve. I came away from the 
farm to live in town, and I don't want no half-way busi- 



Stephen surrendered to her will and made no further 
complaint. 

[461] 



THE SHORT STORY 



They took their Thanksgiving dinner at the hotel — 
and on the way home Serilla said, ' ' There ! For once in 
our lives, Cariss, we don 't have to think of Thanksgiving 
dinner dishes." 

" That's right," answered Cariss, " and yet it doesn't 
seem a bit like Thanksgiving, does it, pa? " 

Stephen did not answer, for he was far away in the 
holidays of the past. 

It is a tragic thing to grow old in daily labor, but it is 
almost as sad to grow old with nothing to do — and home- 
less. Among all his fellows Stephen alone began to 
perceive that to seek comfort for the body in new things 
left the mind filled with longing for old things — left 
it comfortless and unhoused. 

So, while outwardly he remained the same, inwardly 
he was filled with recollections which made him tremble 
with their power. He greeted his neighbors with a smile 
which grew each month a little more absent-minded — a 
little more wistful — and when he wrote to his son in 
Chicago, he said : ' l Our house is about as big as your 
hat, and it 's nice and neat, but we can 't have any Christ- 
mas this year — no place to set a table for more'n six. 
I'm trying hard to pass the time; " and as he wrote his 
glasses grew misty with his tears. 

But one day while he was sitting alone by his window 
at sunset, when the blue- jays were in flight, and the 
butter-nut leaves were falling, Stephen permitted him- 
self a most heroic dream. In imagination he said to a 
contractor, " I want my old house across the hill. I 
don't care what it costs. I'm worth thirty thousand 
dollars, and if it takes half of it, I want my home. My 

[462] 



MARTHA'S FIREPLACE 



women folks will never go back to the Coolly with me, 
and I can't live there alone, so you must bring the old 
house — fireplace and all — across the ridge and put it 
up under the trees somewhere. I want it just as it was 
— can you do this ? ' ' 

In this imagined conversation he was able to express 
himself easily; so he went on to say, " I ain't got but a 
little while to stay here and I want to spend my days in 
peace — I want to be comfortable in my mind — and my 
mind ain't easy in this little box; I want a roomy room 
with shadows in the corners and a fire to watch when I 
don't want to read or talk — I want the old room — " 

And when his wife broke in on this magical revery he 
looked up with eyes so scared and pleading that she 
wondered and sharply cried out, " What's the matter, 
Stephen ? You look as if you 'd seen a ghost. ' ' 

' ' There, mother — there ! mebbe I have, ' ' he answered, 
and turned away to hide the quiver of his lips. 

One day he came in from his usual trip up town 
visibly excited, and after he had taken off his coat and 
hung up his hat, he began : 

" Well, somebody has bought the Merrill place." 

Serilla looked up from her sewing. 

"Who?" 

' ' Hiram said that he heard that a man from Tyre, a 
contractor, had bought it and was going to build on 
speculation. ' ' 

The Merrill place, as it was called, was the remnant 
of a fine farm which had once been the pride of old 
Abner Merrill. The house, standing among magnificent 
elms, commanded ten acres of land — all the rest had 

[ 463 ] 



THE SHORT STORY 



been sold away by the heirs. The outbuildings were in 
decay and the yard was littered with rusty machinery, 
but it was a beautiful site, and Stephen had long admired 
it. He never passed it without planning what he would 
do if he owned it. Now he said: " Well, I am glad 
somebody is goin' to improve it, but I wish you had let 
me buy it." 

To this Serilla made no answer. 

Stephen had been " kind o' dauncy " all through the 
hot weather, but the work going forward on the Merrill 
place seemed to interest him. He fell into the habit of 
walking down there of a morning, and Serilla was glad 
of it, though she took her fling at him and his cronies. 

" It's a wonder to me that you and Hiram and old 
man Pilcher don 't get a tent and camp out in the Merrill 
yard. Seems to me if I was that builder I'd order you 
off the premises. ' ' 

1 ' He considers our advice valuable, mother. ' ' 

" I'll bet he does! " she scornfully replied. 

A few days later old Hiram reported to " the Com- 
mittee on the Universe," that Mr. Hill, the builder was 
putting in a big chimney and fireplace. " He says all 
the city people have them these days. ' ' 

" Well, now, Steve," said Pilcher, " you better go 
right down and give him a little help — you bein' an 
authority on fireplaces. We all hung our stockings in 
chimney corners back East, but I'll be dinged if I can 
remember just how you put 'em in. ' ' 

11 It's a funny thing to me," said Hiram. " In the 
days when we all had fireplaces we were crazy for stoves, 
and now when we are all pervided with furnaces some 
people want fireplaces. You'd think a family that had 

[464] 



MARTHA'S FIREPLACE 



nigh about froze to death on front of a hole in the wall 
would fight shy of 'em thereafter." 

" But they have their good pints," said Stephen, 
eagerly. " Recollect the mug o' cider on the hob, and 
the chestnuts in the ashes, and the apple parin 's and the 
dances — I tell you there's nothin' takes the place of 
a good old — " 

' ' Well you can have hot cider and apple bees without 
a hole in the wall you can sling a yearling through. 
What's the matter with a base-burner? " 

Stephen was stubborn. " Won't do. A base burner 
is such a sullen sort o' thing. No, sir. You've got to 
have the flames a-leapin' an' a-crackin'. I'll admit you 
need other heat," he added, " when the weather's 
too cold; but I just believe we'd all be healthier if we 
went back to the drafty old fireplaces. It did keep the 
room ventilated — the bad air was all swept up the 
chimney. ' ' 

" Yes, 'long with the cat and the almanac and the 
weekly newspaper, ' ' remarked Hiram. ' ' My stars ! but 
the draft in our old chimney would draw nails out of oak 
planks. We had to put a stun on the Bible." 

" But we didn't have consumption in those days — " 

" We had somethin' worse," piped Pilcher. 

" What's that? " 

" Chilblains, by cracky! " 

And then they all cackled together, and the committee 
broke up. 

" What's this I hear? " inquired Serilla, sharply, a 
few days later. " Has the owner of the Merrill place 
asked Jane Kittredge to go into that house? ,J 

" I guess that's right, mother." 

[465] 



THE SHORT STORY 



Serilla snorted, ' ' "Well, that 's a fool thing to do — how 
come it? Did you advise it? " 

1 ' Well, no — Mr. Hill was sort o ' inquirin ' 'round 
for someone, and as Amos was sick and Jane — " 

1 1 I knew it ! I knew you had a hand in that — " 

1 i Well, why not ? Amos is my brother-in-law — I 've 
a right to help him — and Jane's a good housekeeper; 
you can 't deny that ! ' ' 

Serilla turned away. She and Jane were a little 
* ! aidgewise ' ' toward each other — partly because Amos 
was Stephen's first wife's brother and partly because 
Jane herself was quite as sharp-tongued as anyone. 

Serilla had grazed her husband's larger secret, but 
had not really touched it — and he went out to the barn 
to think the situation over. 

The truth was that all this buying, planning and build- 
ing were stanzas in a poem of Stephen Thurber's imag- 
ination. He was the " owner; " Mr. Hill was merely 
his confederate, his blind. 

To the sympathetic young fellow he had gone (while 
on a visit to Tyre) and to him had explained his needs. 
' ' Now, I can 't move the old house over from the Coolly, 
that's out of the question, but I want you to go and 
look it over and build me another exactly like it. Make 
it just as it was when I went into it for the first time, 
so that when I sit down by the fire I can jest imagine 
I 'm home again. ' ' He paused there, for his voice failed 
him. 

This was his secret pain — a sense of homelessness. 
All the subtle charm of his life, all the poetry of the 
past, was associated with the home beyond the ridge, 

[466] 



MARTHA'S FIREPLACE 



'and the sense of loss grew in power of appeal day by- 
day as his palms softened with idleness and his cheeks 
lost their coat of tan. He was bitterly unhappy in his 
i present, and in consequence his face turned more and 
l more fully toward the lovelit days of his youth. The 
j thought of growing old on a fifty-foot lot in a cramped, 
| high-colored, little house appalled him ; and so, after 
j weeks of burning desire and irresolution, he had broken 
ground. 

No one suspected his connection with the building — 
his plan was too audacious, too far removed from the 
practical, everyday life of Bluff Siding to be imagined 
by anyone ; and yet he was tormented with dread of the 
storm of shrill astonishment and protest which would 
encircle him when his secret should be disclosed. 

His hope and comfort lay in the belief that a visit to 
the new house all complete and ready to move into would 
subdue and win his wife. Of Cariss he had no fear. He 
also, covertly, depended upon the sympathy and support 
of his ' * Chicago Boy, ' ' as he called John ; but Albert, 
who was a hard-working dentist in Tyre, with a large 
and annually increasing family (and who was casting 
forward very definitely to his share of the estate) — 
Albert would look with disfavor on the expenditure of 
so much money in so foolish a fashion. As for Pilcher 
and old Hiram and the rest of the boys he was prepared 
to weather their laughter, for it would be good-natured 
— and, besides, the joke would be partly on them, for 
could he not say, " I fooled ye, though, every man jack 
of ye!" 

But the strain of his duplicity wore upon him, and 
Serilla grew so concerned about his silence, his abstrac- 

[467] 



THE SHORT STORY 



tion, that she wrote to John to come up and see what 
was the matter with his father. 

John came, and in answer to his questions, Stephen 
said: " There's nothin' the matter with me, my son, 
only I ain't got nothin' to do. I miss the old place." 

" Well, you are in snug quarters," John admitted, as 
he looked about the little house. "It's all very nice, 
mother, but it isn 't a bit like home. ' ' 

Serilla was defiant. " Did you s'pose I was goin' to 
end my days in Wet Coolly, twelve miles from the rail- 
road? 

1 ' I was just as sorry to leave the old house as he was. 
But, my stars! I couldn't stand the strain. It's all 
right for you to talk; you can come and go, but I had 
to stay there winter and summer — " 

John was generous enough to acknowledge that it was 
a lonesome place for a woman in winter. 

* * Lonesome ! You might as well be buried. ' ' 

" I s'pose you're right, mother. It's all a part of a 
sorrowful exodus; " and leaving a prescription for his 
father he went back to the city, quite uninstructed in 
the real cause of his father 's loss of health. 

The point toward which Stephen was definitely work- 
ing was a grand house-warming on New Year 's Day ; and 
he wished to surprise John especially, for he would cer- 
tainly understand. 

It was a time of anxiety, but it was a time of great 
joy. Each day as the house took shape he rode by or 
sat in the yard to feast upon it. From the porch in front 
to the little garden fence on its roof it was exactly like 
the old house — the windows were the same, the chimney 
rose through the shingles at the same point. Sometimes 

[468] 



MARTHA'S FIREPLACE 



he went inside, but the litter there troubled him, and 
besides, he wanted to wait until all was completed, in 
order that the impression might come to him in fulness 
of power. 

His notion in getting Jane and her husband in was at 
first due to his desire to have someone to put the place 
to rights pending his confession to Serilla — a confession 
which became each day more difficult — for as the days 
slipped by and the house neared completion he became 
absorbed in the idea of restoring the furnishings of the 
house as it was when Martha was alive, an idea which 
came to him as he sat with Amos and his wife among 
their furniture. He was surprised to find a number of 
pieces of Martha's furniture which he had given them 
after her death, and he asked Jane to see if she could 
find the arm-chair he had let her sister have. 

As the day for warming the hearth drew near Stephen 
fairly trembled with joyous excitement. The builder was 
paid up and gone ; the yard was ' ' slick as a whistle ; ' ' 
and the big new house stood cold and white and grand 
under the bare branches of the elms. The andirons and 
the mantle were in place, but Stephen had not yet per- 
mitted himself the luxury of sitting down before the fire 
— he wanted to wait till the room was furnished and 
Martha's rugs in place. 

He was up early that day in order " to help Amos 
move in," he explained to his wife. 

It was a raw day — cloudy with a strong north wind 
and winter seemed in the air — and when the night began 
to fall and Jane's furniture was sparsely distributed 
(Jane herself being busy in the kitchen), Stephen lit the 

[469] 



THE SHORT STORY 



- 



fire on his hearth and sat down before it with a thrill 
of satisfaction. 

As he gazed the spell of that which he had wrought 
fell upon him. The first stanza of his poem was being 
sung by the roaring flames. On the white walls the 
golden light was flickering — and along the ceiling the 
shadows of the tall andirons danced grotesquely, famil- 
iarly, as of old. The mantle with its carven figures and 
its candles and vases seemed unchanged. The song of 
the elms outside was the same. 

Tears dimmed his eyes, a big lump filled his throat. 
For a moment he had the exaltation of the artist. He 
seemed to have triumphed over time's decrees as the 
poet does. It appeared that he had actually restored his 
home, reconstructed the past, so that Martha might at 
any moment steal into the room, light of step as of old, 
to sit on the arm of his chair and to ask with that tender- 
ness of sympathy which always melted his heart, ' ' Tired, 
Stephen ? ' ' and lay her cheek against his shoulder. 

He loved Serilla ; he honored and cared for her as the 
mother of his children ; but Martha was the wife of his 
youth, the Madonna of his dreams. She was associated 
with the mystery of his life, the dew of its morning. The 
whole earth was young that marvelous May when they 
two adventured into this suave and fertile land. The 
perfume of wild honey, the song of larks in flowery 
meadows lay in her name, and around her fireplace still 
lingered such heartiness of cheer, such neighborliness as 
the world no longer knew. Oh, those glorious pioneer 
days ! 

He sat so long in dreams that the red sky and fire 
grew gray and the good people in the kitchen became 

[470] 



MARTHAS FIREPLACE 



uneasy, and Amos came and brought a lamp, and then 
with an absent-minded smile the dreamer rose, stiff with 
the chill of age, and went back to his acknowledged home, 
to the wife of his present. 

He came again the next day, and the next, and the 
next, re-perusing with inarticulate pain and pleasure his 
story in stone and steel, his epic in pungent pine, bask- 
ing in the glow of his fire, forgetting his gray hair and 
nerveless limbs in the magic of the flame. From these 
secret delicious excursions into the past, these commun- 
ions with the dead, he returned to his wife and daughter 
with reluctance, with a certain guilty fear. "Without 
meaning to be disloyal, he began to find Serilla 's brusque 
ways intolerable, and had moments when he resolved to 
keep his secret. He shrank from her sharp voice, her 
prosaic and harsh comment. He was like a bridegroom, 
jealous of the very name of his love. 

He was loath to share his fire with anyone. It was so 
sweet to have this refuge, this place of dreams all to 
himself, to be absolute master of his hearth. The dis- 
closure of his ownership would end all that, would whelm 
him with intrusive and discordant voices. 

So he waited and dreamed while the edge of curiosity 
dulled, and the days went by swiftly like great birds 
blown southward by the sounding wind. 

Amos had guessed Stephen's proprietorship of the 
house, but being a man of perception, he had cautioned 
his wife to yield no hint of their secret knowledge ; and 
Jane was not merely discreet ; she was sympathetic. She 
added in many little ways to Stephen's enjoyment of his 
home. The fire was always blazing on the hearth when 

[471] 



THE SHORT STORY 






he came in, and he was left alone for the most part; 
only upon invitation did she enter the room to sit with 
him before his shrine. 

This understanding was mutual. Stephen knew that 
they were in possession of his secret, but he gave no out- 
ward sign; indeed, he kept up the fiction by greeting 
them as his hosts, and even went so far as to discuss 
the coming of " the owner " in the spring. He always 
expressed gratitude for a chance to sit against the 
fire. 

" I don't know what I'll do when you move outj" he 
said once. " Well, I'll have one comfortable winter, 
anyway,' ' he ended. 

Serilla deeply resented his truancy, which she ascribed 
to the influence of Jane Kittredge, and a barrier of dis- 
trust and defense had risen between them. Cariss, in- 
volved with the young life of the village, gave very little 
thought to the matter, though she occasionally defended 
her father. " If he gets any fun out of Aunt Jane, let 
him," she rather flippantly remarked; and the tone of 
her plea did not incline Stephen to confide in her. John 
would understand, but he hesitated about writing. "I'll 
wait till he comes up a-Christmas, ' ' he decided. 

His old cronies found him distinctly less companion- 
able, more remote. A settled sadness, a growing reserve 
difficult of analysis, had come into his daily greeting. 
He told fewer stories, he was less often at the grocery 
store, and his laugh was seldom heard. 

All this change they referred to ill health, and their 
comment was gentle and commiserating. 

" Stephen is failin' fast," remarked Pilcher, one day. 
" The cold weather seems to grip him. It wouldn't 

[472] 



MARTHAS FIREPLACE 



surprise me to hear any day that he was taken flat down. 
I doubt if he stands many more of these winters. ' ' 

Hiram looked up with a smile which was at once 
defiant and wistful. " "We're all in the same boat and 
driftin' the same way," he said; and then they spoke 
with resolute cheer of the weather and the price of fire- 
wood. 

November passed without any change of plan on 
Stephen's part, and December was half-way gone before 
he broke silence. Being moved by a letter from John, 
he suddenly said one night, quite in his old, hearty way, 
1 ' I tell you what you do, Amos. You and Jane send out 
invitations to John and Albert's folks and to all of 
Serilla's kin bidding 'em all to a Christmas dinner. Say 
to the boys that, seein's their mother hain't got room 
enough, I'm kindo' goin' in with you here. You can 
say I'm helpin' out on the turkey and things, and the 
children 's stockin 's, and that they can stay here — part 
of 'em at least. We can all get together here in this 
big room — " A lump came into his throat and he did 
not finish. 

Jane and Amos fell in with the suggestion quite as if 
it were a command, and withdrew to write out the letters 
of invitation, leaving Stephen alone in the glow of the 
fire, for the walk that day had been a stern battle with 
both wind and snow and he seemed older and feebler. 

' ' It looks like he was planning to let 'em all know — 
don't you think so? " asked Amos. 

" If he does, he'll be sorry. Albert will be furious, 
and so will SerilT. It will all be a foolish waste of money 
to them. She never '11 come here in this world to live. ' ' 

" I can see he kindo' dreads it, he does take such a 

[473] 



THE SHORT STORY 



power o' comfort in it — he's entitled to a little fun, 
seems to me." 

A couple of hours later, as they went down-stairs to 
lock the doors and put out the lights, Jane said, " Look 
in and see how the fire in the big room is, while I see to 
the furnace. My, hear that wind ! " 

Amos opened the door, but paused on the threshold 
and beckoned with a smile. " Come here, Jane," he 
whispered. " I thought I didn't hear him go out." 
Jane looked over his shoulder with a word of surprise. 

The fire had burned low. In a deep bed of ashes a big 
oaken gnarl still smouldered, sending up now and again 
a single leaping jet of flame, and by its fitful light 
Stephen was intermittently revealed, deep-sunk in his 
armchair, his gray head turned laxly aside, his gaunt 
hands hanging emptily by his side. 

" Better wake him," said Jane. " He'll take a chill. 
He'd better sleep here tonight." 

Amos went over and touched the sleeper on the 
shoulder. He did not respond. Amos laid his hand 
against the grizzled cheek, and turned with a start toward 
his wife, a look of awe on his face — a look, a gesture 
which told his story instantly and with completeness. 

Stephen was with Martha, and the past and the present 
were to him as the morning and the evening of one day. 



[474] 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

LIST OF SHORT STORIES 

INDEX 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



BOOKS ON THE TECHNIC OF THE SHORT STORY 

Albright, Evelyn May. "The Short Story." The Macmil- 

lan Co. 
Anonymous "How to Write Fiction." Bellaire and Co. 

(London). 
Baldwin, C. S. "American Short Stories." Longmans, Green 

& Co. 
Canby, H. S. "The Short Story in English." Henry Holt 

& Co. 
Barrett, Charles R. " Short Story Writing." Doubleday, 

Page & Co. 
Cody, Sherwin. "The World's Greatest Short Stories." A. 

C McClurg & Co. 
Dawson, W. J. and C. W. "The Great English Short Story 

Writers." (2 vols.) Harper & Brothers. 
Esenwein, J. Berg. " Writing the Short Story." Hinds, Noble 

& Eldredge. 
Grabo, Carl H. "The Art of the Short Story." Charles 

Scribner's Sons. 
Hamilton, Clayton. "Materials and Methods of Fiction." 

Doubleday, Page & Co. 
Jessup and Canby. "The Book of the Short Story." D. 

Appleton & Co. 
Mable, H. W. " Stories New and Old." The Macmillan Co. 
Matthews, Brander. "The Short Story." American Book Co. 
Nettleton, George H. "Specimens of the Short Story." 

Henry Holt & Co. 
Perry, Bliss. "A Study of Prose Fiction." Houghton 

Mifflin Co. 

[477] 






BIBLIOGRAPHY 



Smith, L. W. "Writing of the Short Story." D. C. Heath 
& Co. 

MAGAZINE ARTICLES 

# 

Bibd, Fbederick M. "Fact in Fiction." Lippincott's, July, 
1895. 

Black, E. C. " The Future of the Short Story." International 
Monthly, vol. 1, p. 205. 

Cable, George W. "Afterthoughts of a Story Teller." North 
American Review, vol. 158, p. 16. " Speculations of a Story 
Teller." Atlantic Monthly, July, 1896. 

Canby, H. S. " The Short Story. Dial, Sept. 1, 1904. 

Eable, Maby Tbacy. "The Problem of Endings." Book 
Buyer, August, 1898. 

Editobial Comment. " Have the Plots Been Exhausted? " Cur- 
rent Literature, June, 1896. 

Fbuit, John Phelps. "The Rationale of the Short Story, 
According to Poe." Poet Lore, vol. 16, p. 57. 

Higginson, T. W. "The Local Short Story." Independent, 
March 11, 1892. 

Howells, William Dean. "Some Anomalies of the Short 
Story." North American Review, September, 1901. 

Matthews, Bbandee. " The Story of the Short Story." Mun- 
sey's, August, 1906. 

Pabkeb, Gilbert. "The Art of Fiction." Critic, December, 
1898. 

Poe, Edgar A. "Hawthorne's Tales." Graham's Magazine, 
May, 1842. 

"The Short Story." Harper's Magazine, January and Febru- 
ary, 1909. 

" The Short Story." Harper's Weekly, May 23, 1908. 

Smith, F. Hopkinson. "How to Write Short Stories." Cur- 
rent Literature, June, 1896. 

Symposium. Robert Barr, Harold Frederic, Arthur Morrison, 
and Jane Barlow. " How to Write the Short Story." Book- 
man, March, 1897. 

[ 478 ] 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



Thompson, Maurice. "The Domain of Romance." Forum, 

vol. 8, p. 328. 
Walsh, W. S. "Real People in Fiction." Lippincott's, vol. 

48, p. 309. 

MISCELLANEOUS COLLECTIONS OF SHORT STORIES 

Great Short Stories. Three Vols. P. F. Collier & Son. 
Harper's Detective Stories. Six Vols. Harper & Brothers. 
Harper's Novelettes. Seven Vols. Harper & Brothers. 
Little Classics. Eighteen Vols. Houghton Mifflin Co. 
Little French Masterpieces. Six Vols. G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
Little Masterpieces of Fiction. Eight Vols. Doubleday, Page 

& Co. 
Short Story Classics (American). Five Vols. P. F. Collier 

& Son. 
Short Story Classics (Foreign). Five Vols. P. F. Collier 

& Son. 
Stories by American Authors. Ten Vols. Charles Scribner's 

Sons. 
Stories by English Authors. Ten Vols. Charles Scribner's 

Sons. 
Stories by Foreign Authors. Ten Vols. Charles Scribner's 

Sons. 
Stories from Scribners. Six Vols. Charles Scribner's Sons. 

For more comprehensive lists of short stories see Jessup 
and Canby "The Book of the Short Story," pages 29, 41, 53, 
77, 89, 127, 191, 211, 227, 279, 297, 319, 343, 357, 439, 463, 479; 
Esenwein, "Writing the Short Story," pages 375, 378, and 382; 
Albright, "The Short Story," pages 234-245; Bulletin of Bib- 
liography, April, 1898, "One Hundred Good Short Stories," 
compiled by Mrs. H. L. Elmendorf; Bulletin of Bibliography, 
Jan., 1905, "One Hundred Good Short Stories," compiled by 
Emma L. Adams. 



[479] 



II 



A LIST OF SHORT STORIES 




The list following does not purport to contain all of the 
best short stories, nor to he a complete list of authors who 
write good short stories; nor does it guarantee each story 
to meet all the requirements for admission into the " good " 
class. There are so many stories, and so many capable writers 
of the short story, that no one could reasonably be expected 
to know them all; consequently this list will probably be open 
to sharp censure for what it omits as much as for what it 
has included. 

The list says to the reader merely this: You are in need 
of a selection of a hundred or two hundred stories that have 
attracted attention, or are, it may be, famous as masterpieces. 
You need to know where to find them. Here is the informa- 
tion you seek. 

For the student, however, after he has become acquainted 
with the elements of technic, the most profitable application 
of his knowledge is not to a list selected by someone else, but 
to the stories he reads from day to day in the current maga- 
zines. It may be said, though, that stories that have been 
made permanent by being included in volumes of collected 
stories have been thought better than the average by some- 
one, and so perhaps merit a careful examination by the student 
of the short story as a literary form. 

Abbott, Eleanob Hallowell. " The Sick-a-Bed Lady." (* The 
Sick-a-Bed Lady and Other Stories.) The Century Com- 
pany. 

Addison, Joseph. "The Vision of Mirza." (English Prose. 
Edited by Manly.) Ginn & Company. 

* Titles of books in which the Short Stories recommended to the 
student may be found are in parenthesis. 

[480] 



I 



A LIST OF SHORT STORIES 



Aldeich, Thomas Bailey. " Marjorie Daw," " Miss Mehita- 
bel's Son," "Two Bites at a Cherry," "Goliath," "Quite 
So." (Marjorie Daw and Other People.) Houghton 
Mifflin Company. 

Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman. "A Good Samaritan." 
Doubleday, Page & Company. "The Perfect Tribute." 
Charles Scribner's Sons. "The Captains." (The Eternal 
Masculine.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Allen, James Lane. " Flute and Violin," " Old King Solomon 
of Kentucky." (Flute and Violin.) The Macmillan Com- 
pany. 

Anstey, F. "The Black Poodle." (Stories by English Au- 
thors.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Austin, Mary. "The House of Offense." Harper's Mag., 
October, 1909. 

Austin, William. "Peter Rugg, the Missing Man." (Stories 
New and Old. Edited by Mabie.) The Macmillan Com- 
pany. 

Balzac, Honore De. "Christ in Flanders," "The Unknown 
Masterpiece," "A Passion in the Desert," "La Grande 
Breteche," " The Conscript." (Little French Masterpieces.) 
G. P. Putnam's Sons. 

Barrle, James M. " How Gavin Birse put it to Mag Lownie," 
"The Courtin' of T'Nowhead's Bell." (A Window in 
Thrums.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Beach, Rex. "The Test," "The Shyness of Shorty." (Pard- 
ners.) Doubleday, Page & Company. 

Bible, The. "The Book of Ruth," "The Book of Esther," 
"Jonah," "The Prodigal Son." 

Bierce, Ambrose. "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." 
(The Great English Short Story Writers. Dawson.) 
Harper & Brothers. " The Damned Thing," " In the Midst 
of Life." (Collected Works.) The Neale Publishing Com- 
pany. 

Bjornson, Bjornstjerne. "The Father." (Stories by For- 
eign Authors.) Charles Scribner's Sons. "The Fisher 
Maiden." (The Fisher Maiden, and Later Stories.) 
Houghton Mifflin Company. 

[481] 



A LIS! OF SHORT STORIES 



Boccaccio. "The Patient Griselda: u *dv«mture of the 
Short Stories. Edited by Cody.) A. « - w - . 

Bourget, Paul. "Another Gambler." (Stories by Foreign 
Authors.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Boyle, Virginia. "Black Silas." Century Mag., January, 
1900. 

Brown, Alice. "The Miracle," "The Map of the Country." 
(High Noon.) Houghton Mifflin Company. 

Brown, Dr. John. "Rab and His Friends." (Stories New 
and Old. Edited by Mabie.) The Macmillan Company. 

Bunner, H. C. " Love in Old Cloathes." (Love in Old Cloathes 
and Other Stories.) Charles Scribner's Sons. "The Love 
Letters of Smith." (Short Sixes.) Puck Publishing Com- 
pany. 

Butler, Ellis Parker. "Pigs is Pigs." Doubleday, Page & 
Company. " The Lady Across the Aisle." McClure's Mag., 
January, 1906. 

Cable, George W. "Pere Raphael," "Posson Jone'." (" Pos- 
son Jone' " and Pere Raphael.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Canby, Henry S. "Business is Business." Atlantic Monthly, 
September, 1913. "The Great Discovery about Buxton." 
Century Mag., October, 1912. 

Chambers, Robert W. "A Young Man in a Hurry." (A 
Young Man in a Hurry and Other Short Stories.) Harper 
& Brothers. 

Chamisso, Adelbebt Von. "Peter Schlemihl." (Stories by 
Foreign Authors.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Child, Richard Washburn. "The Man in the Shadow." 
The Macmillan Company. 

Clemens, Samuel L., (Mark Twain). "A Dog's Tale," "Dou- 
ble-Barrelled Detective Story." Harper & Brothers. " The 
$1,000,000 Bank Note." (The American Claimant.) Harper 
& Brothers. 

Connolly, James B. "The Americanization of Roll-Down 

Joe." (The Crested Seas.) Charles Scribner's Sons. " The 

Salving of the Bark Fuller," "The Wicked Celestine." 

(The Deep Sea's Toll.) Charles Scribner's Sons. " Sonnie- 

[482] 




^ORIES 



Geeould, Katheb^ «nie-Boy's People and Other Stories.) 

Rkiftfift? u Sons. 

Conrad, Joseph. " South." (Youth and Other Stories.) Double- 
day, Page & Company. 

Coppee, Francois. "The Captain's Vices," "The Substitute,' 
" My Friend Meurtrier." (Ten Tales.) Harper & Brothers 

Craddock, Charles Egbert, (Mary N. Murfree). "The Mys 
tery of Witch-Face Mountain." (The Mystery of Witch 
Face Mountain and Other Stories.) Houghton Mifflin Com 
pany. " The Dancin' Party at Harrison's Cove." Atlantic 
Monthly, May, 1878. 

Crawford, F. Marion. "The Upper Berth." (Short Story 
Classics.) P. F. Collier & Son. 

Cutting, Mary Stuart. "The Bishop's Vagabond." (Stories 
by American Authors.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Daskam, Josephine Dodge. "Edgar, the Choir Boy Unceles- 
tial," "The Madness of Philip." (The Madness of Philip 
and Other Stories of Childhood.) Doubleday, Page & Com- 
pany. "A Little Brother to the Books." Scribner's Mag., 
October, 1902. 

Daudet, Axphonse. " The Death of the Dauphin," " The Elixir 
of Father Gaucher." (Little French Masterpieces.) G. P. 
Putnam's Sons. 

Davis, Richard Harding. " Gallegher." (Gallegher and Other 
Stories.) "The Bar Sinister," "A Derelict." Charles 
Scribner's Sons. "The Exiles." (The Exiles and Other 
Stories.) Harper & Brothers. 

De Forest, J. W. "An Inspired Lobbyist." Atlantic Monthly, 
December, 1872. 

Deland, Margaret. "Good for the Soul," "The Unexpected- 
ness of Mr. Horace Shields." (Old Chester Tales.) Harper 
& Brothers. " An Encore." Harper & Brothers. 

Dickens, Charles. "A Child's Dream of a Star," "The 
Boots of the Holly Tree Inn," "Dr. Marigold's Prescrip- 
tions," " A Christmas Carol." (Complete Works.) Charles 
Scribner's Sons. 

Doyle, Arthur Conan. "The Leather Funnel." McClure's 
Mag., November, 1902. "The Hound of the Baskervilles." 
[483] 



A LIST OF SHORT STORIES 



Doubleday, Page & Company. "The Adventure of the 
Speckled Band," "The Adventure of the Golden Pince- 
nez," "The Red-Headed League." (The Adventures of 
Sherlock Holmes.) Harper & Brothers. 

Duncan, Norman. "The Ordination of John Fairmeadow." 
Outlook, March 25, 1911. " The Cure of Hezekiah." Har- 
per's Mag., May, 1907. " The Healer from Far-Away Cove." 
Harper's Mag., September, 1902. 

Earle, Mary Tracy. " King James of the Strawberry Patch." 
Delineator, April, 1909. 

Eliot, George. "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story," "Janet's Repent- 
ance," " Amos Barton." (Scenes of Clerical Life.) Harper 
& Brothers. 

Estabrook, Alma Martin. " The Little Gray Dove." Century 
Mag., August, 1911. 

Estabrook, William Chester. "The Magic of Sourness." 
Century Mag., October, 1908. 

Foote, Mary Hallock. "Friend Barton's Concern." (Stories 
by American Authors.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Ford, Paul Leicester. "Wanted: A Match-Maker." Dodd, 
Mead & Company. 

Fouque, Friedrich Heinrich. " Undine." A. C. McClurg & Co. 

Fox, John, Jr. "A Mountain Europa." Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 

France, Anatole (Anatole Thibault). "A Lead Soldier's 
Story." Current Literature, October, 1909. - The Juggler 
of Notre Dame." (Stories by Foreign Authors.) Charles 
Scribner's Sons. 

French, Alice (Octave Thanet). " The Plumb Idiot." Scrib- 
ner's Mag., vol. 8, p. 749. " The Missionary Sheriff." Har- 
per & Brothers. 

Gale, Zona. " The Ancient Dawn." Delineator, October, 1911. 

Garland, Hamlin. "Up the Coolly," "A Branch Road," " Sim 
Burns' Wife," "Among the Corn Rows," "Mrs. Ripley's 
Trip," "Uncle Ethan Ripley." (Main-Travelled Roads.) 
Harper & Brothers. " The Spirit of Sweetwater." Double- 
day, Page & Company. 

Gauss, M. "The Wolf." McClure's Mag., July, 1911. 

[484J 




*\ 



! 



.=.*<> 



f& 



ORIES 



Geeould, Katherine Fullebton. "Vain Oblations." (Vain 
Oblations and Other Stories.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 
" Wesendonck," Harper's Magazine, April, 1913. 

Glass, Montague. " Mr. Lo Pinto." Current Literature, Sep- 
tember, 1911. 

Grant, Robert. "The Bachelor's Christmas." (The Bach- 
elor's Christmas and Other Stories.) Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 

Hale, Edwabd Evebett. "The Man Without a Country." 
(The Man Without a Country and Other Stories.) Little, 
Brown & Company. 

Halevy, Ludovic. " The Insurgent." (The Short Story. Mat- 
thews.) American Book Company. 

Habdy, Thomas. "The Three Strangers." (The Great Eng- 
lish Short Story Writers. Dawson.) Harper & Brothers. 
"On the Western Circuit," "The Son's Veto," "To Please 
His Wife," " For Conscience Sake." (Life's Little Ironies.) 
Harper & Brothers. 

Habbis, Joel Chandler. "Uncle Remus and His Friends." 
Houghton Mifflin Company. 

Habte, Fbancis Beet. "The Outcasts of Poker Flat," "Ten- 
nessee's Partner," "The Luck of Roaring Camp." (The 
Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches.) Houghton 
Mifflin Company. "A Mercury of the Foothills." Cosmo- 
politan Mag., July, 1901. 

Hawthobne, Nathaniel. "The Great Stone Face," "Ethan 
Brand," "David Swan," " Rappicinna's Daughter," "Dr. 
Heiddegger's Experiment," "The Birthmark." (Complete 
Works.) Houghton Mifflin Company. 

Henby, 0. (Sydney Pobteb). "An Unfinished Story." (The 
Four Million.) "The Whirligig of Life." (Whirligigs.) 
Doubleday, Page & Company. " Cupid a la Carte." (Heart 
of the West.) Doubleday, Page & Company. "The Lotus 
and the Cockleburs." Everybody's Mag., October, 1903. 

Hebrick, Robert. "The Master of the Inn." Charles Scrib- 
ner's Sons. "In the Doctor's Office." Scribner's Mag., 
January, 1908. "The Avalanche." Scribner's Mag., June, 
[485] 



A LIST (J Op 



1907. "The General Manager." Scribner's Mag., March, 
1908. 

Hewlett, Maurice. " The Ruinous Face." Harper & Brothers. 
"The Madonna of the Peach Tree." (Little Novels of 
Italy.) The Macmillan Company. 

Heyse, Paul. " L'Arrabbiata." Outlook, May, 1909. 

Hibbard, George. "The Morning Call." Harper's Mag., Jan- 
uary, 1903. 

Hope, Anthony (Anthony Hope Hawkins). "The House 
Opposite." (The Dolly Dialogues.) Henry Holt & Com- 
pany. "The Indifference of the Miller of Hofbau." "The 
Sin of the Bishop of Modestein." (The Heart of Princess 
Osra.) Frederick A. Stokes Company. 

Hopper, James. "The Maestro of Balangilang." McClure's 
Mag., March, 1905. 

Hornung, E. W. "No Sinecure." Scribner's Mag., January, 
1901. " The Last Laugh." Scribner's Mag., April, 1901. 

Howells, William Dean. "Editha." (Harper's Novelettes.) 
Harper & Brothers. "Though One Rose From the Dead." 
Harper & Brothers. 

Irving, Washington. "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," "Rip 
Van Winkle," " The Devil and Tom Walker." (The Sketch 
Book.) G. P. Putnam's Sons. 

Jacks, L. P. "The Professor's Mare." Atlantic Monthly, 
October, 1912. 

Jacobs, W. W. " The Monkey's Paw. (The Lady of the Barge.) 
Dodd, Mead & Company. 

James, Henry. " A Beast in the Jungle." (The Better Sort.) 
Charles Scribner's Sons. "Owen Wingrave." (The Wheel 
of Time.) Harper & Brothers. "Julia Bride." Harper 
& Brothers. "A Light Man." (Stories oy American Au- 
thors.) Charles Scribner's Sons. "The Liar," "The Ma- 
donna of the Future." (A Passionate Pilgrim and Other 
Tales.) Houghton Mifflin Company. 

Janvier, T. A. " The Passing of Thomas." (The Passing of 
Thomas and Other Stories.) Harper & Brothers. 

Jesse, F. Tennyson. "The Mask." Forum, April, 1912. 

Jewett, Sarah Orne. "Marsh Rosemary." (A White Heron 

[486] 



,IST OF SHORT STORIES 



and Other Stories.) Houghton Mifflin Company. " Fame's 
Little Day." (The Life of Nancy.) Houghton Mifflin Com- 
pany. 

Johnson, Samuel. "The Lingering Expectation of an Heir." 
(A Study of the Short Story. Canby.) Henry Holt & Com- 
pany. 

Kelly, Myba. " The Land of Heart's Desire," " Morris and the 
Honourable Tim," "The Touch of Nature." (Little Cit- 
izens. ) Doubleday, Page & Company. 

Kipling, Rudyard. "Kaa's Hunting," "Rikki Tikki Tavi." 
(The Jungle Book.) The Century Company. " Wee Willie 
Winkie," " The Man Who would be King," " The Drums of 
the Fore and Aft," "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep." (Under the 
Deodars, The Phantom 'Rickshaw, and Wee Willie Winkie.) 
" The Man Who Was," " Without Benefit of Clergy," " The 
Courting of Dinah Shadd." (Life's Handicap.) " The Gate 
of the Hundred Sorrows." (Plain Tales from, the Hills.) 
"The Brushwood Boy." (The Day's Work.) "They,' 
"Mrs. Bathurst." (Traffics and Discoveries.) "Love o 
Women." (Many Inventions.) Doubleday, Page & Company 

Lagerlof, Selma. "Hatto, the Hermit." Outlook, August 22 
1908. "Christmas Night." Good Housekeeping, Decern 
ber, 1911. 

Linn, James Webee. "The Girl at Dukes." McClure's Mag. 
August, 1903. 

Lewis, Will. "Mike Grady's Safety." Everybody's Mag. 
October, 1905. 

Loomis, Charles Battell. " The Cannibals and Mr. Buffum.' 
Cosmopolitan Mag., January, 1906. 

London, Jack. " The Call of the Wild." The Macmillan Com 
pany. "The God of His Fathers." (The God of His 
Fathers, and Other Stories.) Doubleday, Page & Company 
"Samuel." (The Strength of the Strong.) "The Sheriff 
of Kona." (South Sea Tales.) The Macmillan Company 

Long, John Luther. " Madame Butterfly." The Century Com 
pany. "The Siren." Century Mag., July, 1903. 

Maartens, Maarten. "Silly." Success Mag., September 2, 

1899. " The Passport." Harper's Mag., vol. 109, p. 106. 

[487] 



A LIST OF SHORT STORi^w 



Martin, Helen. " The Betrothal of Elypholate Yingst." (The 
Betrothal of Elypholate and Other Tales of the Pennsyl- 
vania Dutch.) The Century Company. "Ellie's Furnish- 
ing." McClure's Mag., December, 1903. 

Matthews, Bbandek. "The Documents in the Case," by B. 
Matthews and H. C. Bunner. (Stories by American Au- 
thors.) Charles Scribner's Sons. "In the Vestibule Lim- 
ited." Harper & Brothers. 

Maupassant, Guy De. " The Necklace," " The Piece of String," 
" A Coward," " Tallow Ball," " The Horla." (Little French 
Masterpieces.) G. P. Putnam's Sons. 

McCutcheon, Geobge Babe. "The Day of the Dog." Dodd, 
Mead & Company. 

McFaelane, Abthub. "The Canonical Curse." Cosmopolitan 
Mag., vol. 33, p. 515. 

Meredith, George. "The House on the Beach." (Short 
Stories.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Mebimee, Prosper. " The Taking of the Redoubt," " The 
Venus of Ille." (Stories by Foreign Authors.) Charles 
Scribner's Sons. 

Merrick, Leonard. "The Bishop's Comedy." Current Liter- 
ature, September, 1912. 

Moss, Mary. " A Pompadour Angel." McClure's Mag., Septem- 
ber, 1903. 

Norris, Frank. "The Passing of Cock-eye Blacklock." (A 
Deal in Wheat and Other Stories.) Doubleday, Page & 
Company. 

O'Brien, Fitz-James. "The Diamond Lens." (The Diamond 
Lens and Other Stories.) Charles Scribner's Sons. " What 
was It? A Mystery." (American Short Stories. Bald- 
win.) Longmans, Green & Company. 

Oppenheim, James. "Slag." Everybody's Mag., June, 1911. 

Osbourne, Lloyd. "The Happiest Day of His Life." (The 
Queen versus Billy, and Other Stories.) Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 

"Outda" (Louise De La Ramee.) "A Dog of Flanders." 
(Nurnberg Stove and Other Stories.) J. B. Lippincott 
Company. 

[488] 



A LIST OF SHORT STORIES 



Oxenham, John. "Antoine, Nette, and Antoinette." Every- 
body's Mag., March, 1904. 

Page, Thomas Nelson. "Meh Lady," "Marse Chan," "The 
Old Gentleman of the Black Stock." Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 

Parker, Gilbert. "A Prairie Vagabond." (Pierre and His 
People.) Harper & Brothers. 

Peple, Edward H. " A Night Out." Moffat, Yard & Company. 

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart. " The Madonna of the Tubs." 
Houghton Miffln Company. 

Phillips, Henry Wallace. "Red Saunders at Big Bend." 
McClure's Mag., January, 1904. 

Poe, Edgar Allan. "Ligeia," "The Fall of the House of 
Usher," "The Murders of the Rue Morgue," "The Cask 
of Amontillado," " The Purloined Letter," " The Gold-Bug," 
" The Pit and the Pendulum," " The Domain of Arnheim," 
" The Black Cat." (Poe's Prose Tales.) Thomas Y. Crowell 
& Co. 

Post, Melville Davisson. "After He was Dead." Current 
Opinion, March, 1912. 

Poushkin, Alexander. "The Shot." (Stories by Foreign 
Authors.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Quhxer-Couch, Arthur T. " The Roll Call of the Reef," " The 
Drawn Blind." {The Great English Short Story Writers. 
Dawson.) Harper & Brothers. 

Sawyer, Ruth. " The Princess and the Vagabone." Outlook, 
September 9, 1911. 

Schock, Georg. " The Immortality of Gad Heffner." Harper's 
Mag., January, 1908. 

Singmaster, Elsie. "The County Seat." Atlantic Monthly, 
May, 1908. 

Scott, Sir Walter. "Wandering Willie's Tale." Dodge Pub- 
lishing Company. 

Shorthouse, Joseph Henry. "The Marquis Jeanne Hyacinth 
St. Palaye." (Stories New and Old. Edited by Mabie.) 
The Macmillan Company. 

Smith, Arthur Cosslett. "The Turquoise Cup," "The Des- 

[489] 



A LIST OF SHORT STORIES 



ert." (The Turquoise Gup and the Desert.) Charles Scrib- 
ner's Sons. 

Smith, Fbancis Hopkinson. "An Extra Blanket." Scrib- 
ner's Mag., November, 1904. 

Stevenson, Robert Louis. " Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," " Mark- 
heim," "A Lodging for the Night," "The Sire de Male- 
troit's Door," "Will o' the Mill," " Thrawn Janet," "The 
Merry Men," " The Beach at Falesa." (Complete Works 
of Rooert Louis Stevenson.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Stimson, F. J. ("J. S. of Dale.") "Mrs. Knollys." (Mrs. 
Knollys and Other Stories.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Stockton, Frank. " The Bee Man of Orne." Charles Scrib- 
ner's Sons. " The Lady or the Tiger? " (The Lady or the 
Tiger and Other Stories.) Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Stuart, Ruth McEnery. " Milady." Harper's Mag., vol. 106, 
p. 563. "A Note of Scarlet." Century Mag., May-June, 
1899. "Napoleon Jackson, the Gentleman of the Plush 
Rocker." The Century Company. "Aunt Amity's Silver 
Wedding." (Aunt Amity's Silver Wedding and Other 
Stories.) The Century Company. 

Tarkington, Booth. " Monsieur Beaucaire." Doubleday, Page 
& Co. "Cherry." Harper & Brothers. 

Thackeray, William Makepeace. "A Princess's Tragedy." 
(The World's Greatest Short Stories. Edited by Cody.) 
A. C. McClurg & Co. 

Thomas, Rowland. " Fagan." Collier's Weekly, April 8, 1905. 

Tolstoi, Count Lyof N. " Where Love is, There God is Also," 
"What Men Live By," "Three Arshins of Land," "Ivan 
Ilyitch," " An Old Acquaintance." (Ivan Ilyitch and Family 
Happiness.) Thomas Y. Crowell & Company. 

Turgenev, Ivan. "Mumu." (Stories oy Foreign Authors.) 
Charles Scribner's Sons. "A Lear of the Steppes." The 
Macmillan Company. 

Van Dyke, Henry. "The Lost Word." Charles Scribner's 
Sons. "The Story of the Other Wise Man." Harper & 
Brothers. 

Vincent, Leon H. "The Law of His Nature." Scribner's 
Mag., May, 1907. 

[490] 



A LIST OF SHORT STORIES 



Watson, John (Ian Maclaren). "Beside the Bonnie Brier 
Bush," Dodd, Mead & Company. "A Doctor of the Old 
School." Dodd, Mead & Company. 

Whaeton Edith. " The Duchess at Prayer." (Crucial In- 
stances.) Charles Scribner's Sons. " Soul's Belated." 
(The Greater Inclination.) Charles Scribner's Sons. " The 
Eyes." (Tales of Men and Ghosts.) Charles Scribner's 
Sons. "Madam de Treymes." Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Wharton, Thomas. " Bobbo." (Boooo and Other Fancies.) 
Harper & Brothers, Vol. 27. Library of the World's Best 
Literature. Warner's. 

White, Stewart Edward. " The Life of the Winds of Heaven." 
McClure's Mag., August, 1902, " The Blazed Trail." Double- 
day, Page & Company. 

White, William Allen. " The King of Boyville." (The Court 
of Boyville.) The Macmillan Company. 

Wiggin, Kate Douglas. " The Birds' Christmas Carol." Hough- 
ton Mifflin Company. "The Story of Patsy." Houghton 
Mifflin Company. 

Wilkins-Freeman, Mary E. "Emmy." "A New England 
Nun," "A Village Lear," "The Revolt of Mother," "A 
Kitchen Colonel," " A Solitary." (A New England Nun and 
Other Stories.) Harper & Brothers. 

Williams, Jesse Lynch. "The Stolen Story." (The Stolen 
Story and Other Newspaper Stories.) Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 

Williams, William D. "The Last Choice of Crusty Dick." 
McClure's Mag., December, 1902. 

Wister, Owen. " Specimen Jones." Harper's Mag., vol. 89, 
p. 204. "The Game and the Nation." (Stories New and 
Old. Edited by Mabie.) The Macmillan Company. "In a 
State of Sin." Harper's Mag., February, 1902. 

Woolson, Constance Fenimore. "The Front Yard." (The 
Front Yard and Other Italian Stories.) Harper & Brothers. 

Zangwill, I. " Transitional." Harper's Mag., vol. 99, p. 195. 



[491] 



INDEX 



Addison, 11, 13 

Adventure of the Speckled Band, 
The, Conan Doyle, 241 

Adventures of a Guinea, Chrysal, 
or the, Johnstone, 18 

Aesop's Fables, 9 

Aladdin and His Wonderful 
Lamp, 6 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 33, 72, 
80 

Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, 6 

Allen, James Lane, 31, 33 

American Prose Musters, Brown- 
ell, 12 

Among the Corn Rows, Hamlin 
Garland, 31 

Angelus, The, 69 

Apparition of Mrs. Veal, The, De- 
foe, 13 

Appearance of Truth, 74 

Apuleius, Lucius, 8 

Arabian Nights' Entertainments, 
5 22 

Aristotle, 8, 40 

Arthurian Cycle, The, 10 

Atmosphere, 20 

Austin, William, 13 

Background, 20 

Barry Lyndon, Thackeray, 11 

Beast Fables, 9 

Beginnings, 83 

Bible Stories, 6 

Bjornson, 191 

Boccaccio, 9 

Book of Jonah, The, 7 

Book of Ruth, The, 7 

Book of the Short Story, The, 

Jessup and Canby, 5, 15 
Brownell, W. C, 12 
Brushwood Boy, The, Rudyard 

Kipling, 28 
Bunyan, Pilgrim's Progress, 10 

Cable, George W., 32, 33 
Canby, Jessup and, 5, 15 
Canterbury Tales, The, Chaucer, 

6, 10 
Cervantes, Don Quixote, 10 
Character Development, 64 
Character Portrayal, 64 
Character, Stories of, 20 



Characters, 59 

Characters Worth Knowing, 61 ; 
unusual, 61 

Chaucer, 6, 10 

Chronological Development of the 
Short Story, 15 

Chrysal, or the Adventures of a 
Guinea, 18 

Classification of Themes, 27 ; 
groups, 30 

Clerk's Tale, The, Chaucer, 10 

Condensations of Experience, 63 

Conditions, 19 

Confessio Amantis, Gower, 10 

Connolly, James B., 32, 74, 313 

Conrad, Joseph, Heart of Dark- 
ness, 406 

Conversation, 85 

Coward, The, Guy de Maupas- 
sant. 34 

Culmination, The, 40 

Cupid and Psyche, 8 

Davis, Richard Harding, 32, 66" 
Dawson, William J., 4, 8 
Decameron, The, Boccaccio, 9, 10 
Defoe, 13 

Delineation of Character, 33 
Derelict, A, Richard Harding Da- 
vis, 32, 66 
Detective Story, Plot in the, 45 
Development of Character, 33, 

64 
Disintegration of Character, 33 
Documents in the Case, The, 

Brander Matthews, 80 
Domain of Arnheim, The, Poe, 22 
Don Quixote, Cervantes, 10 
Doyle. Sir Arthur Conan, 241 
Dr. Grimshawe's Secret, Haw- 
thorne, 34 
Dr. Heiddegger's Experiment, 

Hawthorne, 131 
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Steven- 
son, 31 
Drawn Blind, The, Sir Arthur T. 
Quiller-Couch, 33 

Egyptian Stories, 5 
Eliot, George, 25 
Elsie Tenner, Holmes, 8 
Emotion, 70 

492] 



INDEX 



Endings, 90 

Essays and Reviews, Stevenson, 

72 
Evolution of the Short Story, 

The, 4 

Fables, 9 

Faerie Queene, The, Spenser, 76 

Fall of the House of Usher, The, 

Poe, 71 
Fall of Princes, Lydgate, 10 
Falling Action, 42 
Father, The, Bjornson, 191 
Fielding, Tom Jones, 11 

Garland, Hamlin, Among the 
Corn Rows, 31, 32, 450 

Garnett, Richard, 9 

Gesta Romanorum, 8, 9 

Golden Ass, The, or Metamor- 
phoses, Apuleius, 8 

Goliath, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 
72 

Gower, 10 

Great English Short Story Writ- 
ers, W. J. Dawson. 8 

Great Stone Face, The, Haw- 
thorne, 34 

Greatest Themes, The. 36 

Greek and Roman Tales, 7 

Gregory, Lady, 76 

Griselda, The Story of Patient, 
10 

Groups of Themes, 30 

Guardian, The, 11 

Guiding Lines, 86 

Hamilton, Clayton, 72, 78 

Bans Eulenspiegel, 9 

Harris, Joel Chandler, 9 

Harte, Bret, 26 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 3, 8, 12, 
13, 34, 131 

Heart of Darkness, Joseph Con- 
rad, 406 

Henry. O. (Sydney Porter), The 
Whirligig of Life, 83, 94 

Herrick, Robert, 31, 39 

History of the Short Story, The, 
3 

Hogg, James ("The Ettrick 
Shepherd"), 12, 196 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 8 

Hope, Anthony, 72, 234 

Home, Charles F., 4, 8 

Idealism, 76 

Idylls of the King, The, Tenny- 
son. 10, 76 
Incident, Stories of, 20. 22 
Incidents in Short Stories, 19 
Initial Incident. The, 42 
Impression of Life, An, 34 
Irving, Washington, 12, 13 

[ 



Jessup and Canby, 5, 15 

Johnson, 11 

Johnstone, Charles, Chrysal, or 

the Adventures of a Guinea, 

18 
Jonah, The Book of, 7 
Jotham's Parable of the Trees 

Choosing a King, 6 

Kathleen ni Houlihan, William 

Butler Yeats, 76 
Kind of People in Stories, The, 

60 
King Arthur Stories, 10 
King Lear, 71 
Kipling, Rudyard, 4, 28, 89; hia 

titles, 82 

Lady or the Tiger f, The, Frank 
Stockton, 22 

Lady with the Fringe, The, 19 

Legend of Sleepy Hollow, The, 
Irving, 12, 13 

Ligeia, Poe, 109 

Little Lazarus of Tormes, 9 

Lives of the Saints, 9 

Lodging for the Night, A, Stev- 
enson, 35 

London. Jack, 30, 361 

Longfellow, 6, 10 

Luck of Roaring Camp, The, 
Bret Harte, 26 

Lydgate, 10 

Mabie, Hamilton W., 3 

Macbeth, 71 

Magicians, Tales of the, 5 

Makers of English Fiction, W. J. 
Dawson, 4 

Malory, Sir Thomas. 10 

Management of the Materials, 
80 

Mandeville, Sir John, 9 

Man Who Would be King, The, 
Rudyard Kipling, 89 

Marjorie Daw, Thomas Bailey 
Aldrich, 80 

Martha's Fireplace, Hamlin Gar- 
land, 450 

Master of the Inn, The, Robert 
Herrick. 31 

Materials and Methods of Fic- 
tion. Clayton Hamilton, 72 

Materials from Which Stories 
Are Made. The, 17 

Matthews. Brander. 15 

Maupassant. Guy de, 28, 31, 46, 
146 

Merimee, Prosper, 22. 220 

Merry Men, The, Stevenson. 34 

Metamorphoses, or The Golden 
Ass, Apuleius. 8 

Methods of Delineating Charac- 
ter, 64 
493] 



INDEX 



Millet, 69 

Mirza, The Vision of, Addison, 

12, 13 
Modern Short Story, The, 14 
Morrison, Arthur, 32, 65, 69, 228 
Morte d' Arthur, Sir Thomas 

Malory, 10 
Mrs. Bathurst, Rudyard Kipling, 

89 
Munchausen, Baron, 9 
Mysterious Bride, The, James 

Hogg, 12, 196 

Napoleon Jackson, Ruth McEnery 
Stuart, 33 

Necklace, The, Guy de Maupas- 
sant, 28, 146 

Night Out, A, Edward Peple, 18 

Odyssey, The, 37 

Old King Solomon of Kentucky, 

James Lane Allen, 31 
Old Man of the Hill, The Tale of 

the, from Fielding's Tom 

Jones, 11 
Old Testament Stories, 6, 7 
On the Stairs, Arthur Morrison, 

32, 65, 69, 228 
Other Wise Man, The, Henry 

van Dyke, 28 

People in Stories, 18 

Peple, Edward, 18 

Pere Raphael, George W. Cahle, 

33 
Peter Rugg, the Missing Man, 

William Austin, 13 
Petrie, 5, 6 
Petrarch, 10 
Picaresque Tales, 9 
Piece of String, The, Guy de 

Maupassant, 28, 31, 46 
Pilgrim's Progress, 10 
Place in Stories, 19 
Plan for the Study of a Short 

Story, A, 92 
Plot, 39 

Plot Diagram, A Typical, 41 
Plot in Detective Stories, 45 
Poe, Edgar Allan, 12, 13, 22, 28, 

109 
Point of View, 80 
Poison Maid, The, Richard Gar- 

nett, 9 
Poison of Sin, Of the, 8 
Portrayal of Character, 64 
" Posson J one'," George W. Cable, 

32 
Predominant Element, The, 21 
Preliminary Situation, The, 40 
Primary Purpose, The Author's, 

35 
Princess' Tragedy, The, from 

Thackeray's Barry Lyndon, 11 

C 



Prodigal Son, The, 7. 22, 69, 217 
Prose Tales, Poe, 4 

Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur T., 33 
Quite So, Thomas Bailey Aid- 
rich, 33 

Rappicinni's Daughter, Haw- 
thorne, 8 

Realism and Romance, 75 

Redgauntlet, Sir Walter Scott, 
11 

Restraint, 87 

Revolt of Mother, The, Mary E. 
Wilkins-Preeman, 84 

Reynard the Fox, Stories of, 9 

Rip Van Winkle, Irving, 12, 13 

Rising of the Moon, The, Lady 
Gregory, 76 

Rogue Stories, 9 

Roman Tales, Greek and, 7 

Romance, 75 

Ruth, The Book of, 7 

Samuel, Jack London, 30, 361 
Scott, Sir Walter, 11, 13 
Setting, 19, 69 
Setting, Stories of, 20 
Shakespeare, 13 
Shipwrecked Sailor, The, 5 
Short Story, Novelette, and 

Novel, 77 
Short Story in English, The, 

Henry S. Canby, 15 
Short Story Materials, 17 
Silas Marner, George Eliot, 25 
Sir Roger de Coverley Papers, 

The, Addison, 11 
Speckled Band, The Adventure of 

the, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 

241 
Spectator, The, 11 
Spenser, The Faerie Queene, 76 
Spirit of Sweetwater, The, Ham- 
lin Garland, 32 
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 4, 31, 

72. 277 
Stockton, Frank, 22 
Stories of Character, Setting, or 

Incident, 20 
Stories New and Old, Hamilton 

W. Mabie, 3 
String, The Piece of, Guy de 

Maupassant, 28, 31, 46 
Stuart, Ruth McEnery, 33 
Suggestion and Restraint, 87 
Suspense, 87 
Symbolism, 76 

Taking of the Redoubt, The, 

Merimee, 22. 220 
Tales and Sketches, James Hogg, 

12 
Tales of the Magicians, The, 5, 6 

494] 



INDEX 



Tales of a Wayside Inn, Long- 
fellow, 6, 10 

Tattler, The, 11 

Technique of the Hovel, The, 
Charles F. Home, 4, 8 

Tennyson, 10 

Thackeray, 11 

Theme, The Meaning of, 26 

Themes, Groups of, 30 

They, Rudyard Kipling, 89 

Thousand and One Nights, The, 6 

Three Arshins of Land, Tolstoi, 
Lyof N., 158 

Time, 19 

Titles, 82 

Tolstoi, Lyof N., 158, 173 

Tom Jones, Fielding, 11 

Tone, 20, 70 

Trees Choosing a King, The, 6 

Truth of the Oliver Cromwell, 
The, James B. Connolly, 32, 
35, 313 

Typical Plot Diagram, A, 41 



Uncle Remus Stories, 
Chandler Harris, 9 



Joel 



Unusual People, 61 ; Situations, 
62 ; Impressions, 62 

Van Dyke, Henry, 28 

Verisimilitude, 74 

Village Lear, A, Mary E. Wil- 

kins-Freeman, 32 
Vision of Mirza, The, Addison, 

12, 13 

Wandering Willie's Tale, from 
Redgauntlet, Scott, 11, 13 

Wayside Inn, Tales of a, Long- 
fellow, 6 

Where Love Is, There God Is 
Also, Tolstoi, Lyof N., 173 

Whirligig of Life, The, O. Henry 
(Sydney Porter), 83, 94 

Will o' the Mill, Stevenson, 277 

Wilkins-Freeman, Mary E., 32, 
84 

Writer's Primary Purpose, The, 
35 

Yeats, William Butler, 76 



[495] 



' 









LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




009 760 363 7 



